Eragon Part 1

PROLOGUE:
SHADE OF FEAR

Wind howled through the night, carrying a scent that would change the world. A tall
Shade lifted his head and sniffed the air. He looked human except for his crimson hair
and maroon eyes.

He blinked in surprise. The message had been correct: they were here. Or was it a trap?
He weighed the odds, then said icily, “Spread out; hide behind trees and bushes. Stop
whoever is coming . . . or die.”

Around him shuffled twelve Urgals with short swords and round iron shields painted with
black symbols. They resembled men with bowed legs and thick, brutish arms made for
crushing. A pair of twisted horns grew above their small ears. The monsters hurried into
the brush, grunting as they hid. Soon the rustling quieted and the forest was silent again.

The Shade peered around a thick tree and looked up the trail. It was too dark for any
human to see, but for him the faint moonlight was like sunshine streaming between the
trees; every detail was clear and sharp to his searching gaze. He remained unnaturally
quiet, a long pale sword in his hand. A wire-thin scratch curved down the blade. The
weapon was thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, yet stout enough to hack through
the hardest armor.


The Urgals could not see as well as the Shade; they groped like blind beggars, fumbling
with their weapons. An owl screeched, cutting through the silence. No one relaxed until
the bird flew past. Then the monsters shivered in the cold night; one snapped a twig with
his heavy boot. The Shade hissed in anger, and the Urgals shrank back, motionless. He
suppressed his distaste—they smelled like fetid meat—and turned away. They were tools,
nothing more.

The Shade forced back his impatience as the minutes became hours. The scent must have
wafted far ahead of its owners. He did not let the Urgals get up or warm themselves. He
denied himself those luxuries, too, and stayed behind the tree, watching the trail. Another
gust of wind rushed through the forest. The smell was stronger this time. Excited, he
lifted a thin lip in a snarl.

“Get ready,” he whispered, his whole body vibrating. The tip of his sword moved in
small circles. It had taken many plots and much pain to bring himself to this moment. It
would not do to lose control now.

Eyes brightened under the Urgals’ thick brows, and the creatures gripped their weapons
tighter. Ahead of them, the Shade heard a clink as something hard struck a loose stone.
Faint smudges emerged from the darkness and advanced down the trail.

Three white horses with riders cantered toward the ambush, their heads held high and
proud, their coats rippling in the moonlight like liquid silver.

On the first horse was an elf with pointed ears and elegantly slanted eyebrows. His build
was slim but strong, like a rapier. A powerful bow was slung on his back. A sword
pressed against his side opposite a quiver of arrows fletched with swan feathers.

The last rider had the same fair face and angled features as the other. He carried a long
spear in his right hand and a white dagger at his belt. A helm of extraordinary
craftsmanship, wrought with amber and gold, rested on his head.

Between these two rode a raven-haired elven lady, who surveyed her surroundings with
poise. Framed by long black locks, her deep eyes shone with a driving force. Her clothes
were unadorned, yet her beauty was undiminished. At her side was a sword, and on her
back a long bow with a quiver. She carried in her lap a pouch that she frequently looked
at, as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

One of the elves spoke quietly, but the Shade could not hear what was said. The lady
answered with obvious authority, and her guards switched places. The one wearing the
helm took the lead, shifting his spear to a readier grip. They passed the Shade’s hiding
place and the first few Urgals without suspicion.

The Shade was already savoring his victory when the wind changed direction and swept
toward the elves, heavy with the Urgals’ stench. The horses snorted with alarm and


tossed their heads. The riders stiffened, eyes flashing from side to side, then wheeled
their mounts around and galloped away.

The lady’s horse surged forward, leaving her guards far behind. Forsaking their hiding,
the Urgals stood and released a stream of black arrows. The Shade jumped out from
behind the tree, raised his right hand, and shouted, “Garjzla!”

A red bolt flashed from his palm toward the elven lady, illuminating the trees with a
bloody light. It struck her steed, and the horse toppled with a high-pitched squeal,
plowing into the ground chest-first. She leapt off the animal with inhuman speed, landed
lightly, then glanced back for her guards.

The Urgals’ deadly arrows quickly brought down the two elves. They fell from the noble
horses, blood pooling in the dirt. As the Urgals rushed to the slain elves, the Shade
screamed, “After her! She is the one I want!” The monsters grunted and rushed down the
trail.

A cry tore from the elf’s lips as she saw her dead companions. She took a step toward
them, then cursed her enemies and bounded into the forest.

While the Urgals crashed through the trees, the Shade climbed a piece of granite that
jutted above them. From his perch he could see all of the surrounding forest. He raised
his hand and uttered, “Böetq istalri!” and a quarter-mile section of the forest exploded
into flames. Grimly he burned one section after another until there was a ring of fire, a
half-league across, around the ambush site. The flames looked like a molten crown
resting on the forest. Satisfied, he watched the ring carefully, in case it should falter.

The band of fire thickened, contracting the area the Urgals had to search. Suddenly, the
Shade heard shouts and a coarse scream. Through the trees he saw three of his charges
fall in a pile, mortally wounded. He caught a glimpse of the elf running from the
remaining Urgals.

She fled toward the craggy piece of granite at a tremendous speed. The Shade examined
the ground twenty feet below, then jumped and landed nimbly in front of her. She
skidded around and sped back to the trail. Black Urgal blood dripped from her sword,
staining the pouch in her hand.

The horned monsters came out of the forest and hemmed her in, blocking the only escape
routes. Her head whipped around as she tried to find a way out. Seeing none, she drew
herself up with regal disdain. The Shade approached her with a raised hand, allowing
himself to enjoy her helplessness.

“Get her.”

As the Urgals surged forward, the elf pulled open the pouch, reached into it, and then let
it drop to the ground. In her hands was a large sapphire stone that reflected the angry light


of the fires. She raised it over her head, lips forming frantic words. Desperate, the Shade
barked, “Garjzla!”

A ball of red flame sprang from his hand and flew toward the elf, fast as an arrow. But he
was too late. A flash of emerald light briefly illuminated the forest, and the stone
vanished. Then the red fire smote her and she collapsed.

The Shade howled in rage and stalked forward, flinging his sword at a tree. It passed
halfway through the trunk, where it stuck, quivering. He shot nine bolts of energy from
his palm—which killed the Urgals instantly—then ripped his sword free and strode to the
elf.

Prophecies of revenge, spoken in a wretched language only he knew, rolled from his
tongue. He clenched his thin hands and glared at the sky. The cold stars stared back,
unwinking, otherworldly watchers. Disgust curled his lip before he turned back to the
unconscious elf.

Her beauty, which would have entranced any mortal man, held no charm for him. He
confirmed that the stone was gone, then retrieved his horse from its hiding place among
the trees. After tying the elf onto the saddle, he mounted the charger and made his way
out of the woods.

He quenched the fires in his path but left the rest to burn.

DISCOVERY

Eragon knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks with a practiced
eye. The prints told him that the deer had been in the meadow only a half-hour before.
Soon they would bed down. His target, a small doe with a pronounced limp in her left
forefoot, was still with the herd. He was amazed she had made it so far without a wolf or
bear catching her.

The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted
over the mountains that surrounded him, its edges glowing with ruddy light cast from the
harvest moon cradled between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains from
stolid glaciers and glistening snowpacks. A brooding mist crept along the valley’s floor,
almost thick enough to obscure his feet.

Eragon was fifteen, less than a year from manhood. Dark eyebrows rested above his
intense brown eyes. His clothes were worn from work. A hunting knife with a bone
handle was sheathed at his belt, and a buckskin tube protected his yew bow from the mist.
He carried a wood-frame pack.

The deer had led him deep into the Spine, a range of untamed mountains that extended up
and down the land of Alagaësia. Strange tales and men often came from those mountains,


usually boding ill. Despite that, Eragon did not fear the Spine—he was the only hunter
near Carvahall who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses.

It was the third night of the hunt, and his food was half gone. If he did not fell the doe, he
would be forced to return home empty-handed. His family needed the meat for the
rapidly approaching winter and could not afford to buy it in Carvahall.

Eragon stood with quiet assurance in the dusky moonlight, then strode into the forest
toward a glen where he was sure the deer would rest. The trees blocked the sky from
view and cast feathery shadows on the ground. He looked at the tracks only occasionally;
he knew the way.

At the glen, he strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one,
holding the others in his left hand. The moonlight revealed twenty or so motionless lumps
where the deer lay in the grass. The doe he wanted was at the edge of the herd, her left
foreleg stretched out awkwardly.

Eragon slowly crept closer, keeping the bow ready. All his work of the past three days
had led to this moment. He took a last steadying breath and—an explosion shattered the
night.

The herd bolted. Eragon lunged forward, racing through the grass as a fiery wind surged
past his cheek. He slid to a stop and loosed an arrow at the bounding doe. It missed by a
finger’s breadth and hissed into darkness. He cursed and spun around, instinctively
nocking another arrow.

Behind him, where the deer had been, smoldered a large circle of grass and trees. Many
of the pines stood bare of their needles. The grass outside the charring was flattened. A
wisp of smoke curled in the air, carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radius
lay a polished blue stone. Mist snaked across the scorched area and swirled insubstantial
tendrils over the stone.

Eragon watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only thing that moved was
the mist. Cautiously, he released the tension from his bow and moved forward. Moonlight
cast him in pale shadow as he stopped before the stone. He nudged it with an arrow, then
jumped back. Nothing happened, so he warily picked it up.

Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark
blue, except for thin veins of white that spiderwebbed across it. The stone was cool and
frictionless under his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it weighed
several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have.

Eragon found the stone both beautiful and frightening.Where did it come from? Does it
have a purpose? Then a more disturbing thought came to him:Was it sent here by
accident, or am I meant to have it? If he had learned anything from the old stories, it was
to treat magic, and those who used it, with great caution.


But what should I do with the stone?It would be tiresome to carry, and there was a chance
it was dangerous. It might be better to leave it behind. A flicker of indecision ran through
him, and he almost dropped it, but something stayed his hand.At the very least, it might
pay for some food, he decided with a shrug, tucking the stone into his pack.

The glen was too exposed to make a safe camp, so he slipped back into the forest and
spread his bedroll beneath the upturned roots of a fallen tree. After a cold dinner of bread
and cheese, he wrapped himself in blankets and fell asleep, pondering what had occurred.

PALANCARVALLEY

The sun rose the next morning with a glorious conflagration of pink and yellow. The air
was fresh, sweet, and very cold. Ice edged the streams, and small pools were completely
frozen over. After a breakfast of porridge, Eragon returned to the glen and examined the
charred area. The morning light revealed no new details, so he started for home.

The rough game trail was faintly worn and, in places, nonexistent. Because it had been
forged by animals, it often backtracked and took long detours. Yet for all its flaws, it was
still the fastest way out of the mountains.

The Spine was one of the only places that King Galbatorix could not call his own. Stories
were still told about how half his army disappeared after marching into its ancient forest.
A cloud of misfortune and bad luck seemed to hang over it. Though the trees grew tall
and the sky shone brightly, few people could stay in the Spine for long without suffering
an accident. Eragon was one of those few—not through any particular gift, it seemed to
him, but because of persistent vigilance and sharp reflexes. He had hiked in the
mountains for years, yet he was still wary of them. Every time he thought they had
surrendered their secrets, something happened to upset his understanding of them—like
the stone’s appearance.

He kept up a brisk pace, and the leagues steadily disappeared. In late evening he arrived
at the edge of a precipitous ravine. The Anora River rushed by far below, heading to
Palancar Valley. Gorged with hundreds of tiny streams, the river was a brute force,
battling against the rocks and boulders that barred its way. A low rumble filled the air.

He camped in a thicket near the ravine and watched the moonrise before going to bed.

It grew colder over the next day and a half. Eragon traveled quickly and saw little of the
wary wildlife. A bit past noon, he heard the Igualda Falls blanketing everything with the
dull sound of a thousand splashes. The trail led him onto a moist slate outcropping, which
the river sped past, flinging itself into empty air and down mossy cliffs.


Before him lay Palancar Valley, exposed like an unrolled map. The base of the Igualda
Falls, more than a half-mile below, was the northernmost point of the valley. A little
ways from the falls was Carvahall, a cluster of brown buildings. White smoke rose from
the chimneys, defiant of the wilderness around it. At this height, farms were small square
patches no bigger than the end of his finger. The land around them was tan or sandy,
where dead grass swayed in the wind. The Anora River wound from the falls toward
Palancar’s southern end, reflecting great strips of sunlight. Far in the distance it flowed
past the village Therinsford and the lonely mountain Utgard. Beyond that, he knew only
that it turned north and ran to the sea.

After a pause, Eragon left the outcropping and started down the trail, grimacing at the
descent. When he arrived at the bottom, soft dusk was creeping over everything, blurring
colors and shapes into gray masses. Carvahall’s lights shimmered nearby in the twilight;
the houses cast long shadows. Aside from Therinsford, Carvahall was the only village in
Palancar Valley. The settlement was secluded and surrounded by harsh, beautiful land.
Few traveled here except merchants and trappers.

The village was composed of stout log buildings with low roofs—some thatched, others
shingled. Smoke billowed from the chimneys, giving the air a woody smell. The
buildings had wide porches where people gathered to talk and conduct business.
Occasionally a window brightened as a candle or lamp was lit. Eragon heard men talking
loudly in the evening air while wives scurried to fetch their husbands, scolding them for
being late.

Eragon wove his way between the houses to the butcher’s shop, a broad, thick-beamed
building. Overhead, the chimney belched black smoke.

He pushed the door open. The spacious room was warm and well lit by a fire snapping in
a stone fireplace. A bare counter stretched across the far side of the room. The floor was
strewn with loose straw. Everything was scrupulously clean, as if the owner spent his
leisure time digging in obscure crannies for minuscule pieces of filth. Behind the counter
stood the butcher Sloan. A small man, he wore a cotton shirt and a long, bloodstained
smock. An impressive array of knives swung from his belt. He had a sallow, pockmarked
face, and his black eyes were suspicious. He polished the counter with a ragged cloth.

Sloan’s mouth twisted as Eragon entered. “Well, the mighty hunter joins the rest of us
mortals. How many did you bag this time?”

“None,” was Eragon’s curt reply. He had never liked Sloan. The butcher always treated
him with disdain, as if he were something unclean. A widower, Sloan seemed to care for
only one person—his daughter, Katrina, on whom he doted.

“I’m amazed,” said Sloan with affected astonishment. He turned his back on Eragon to
scrape something off the wall. “And that’s your reason for coming here?”

“Yes,” admitted Eragon uncomfortably.


“If that’s the case, let’s see your money.” Sloan tapped his fingers when Eragon shifted
his feet and remained silent. “Come on—either you have it or you don’t. Which is it?”

“I don’t really have any money, but I do—”

“What, no money?” the butcher cut him off sharply. “And you expect to buy meat! Are
the other merchants giving away their wares? Should I just hand you the goods without
charge? Besides,” he said abruptly, “it’s late. Come back tomorrow with money. I’m
closed for the day.”

Eragon glared at him. “I can’t wait until tomorrow, Sloan. It’ll be worth your while,
though; I found something to pay you with.” He pulled out the stone with a flourish and
set it gently on the scarred counter, where it gleamed with light from the dancing flames.

“Stole it is more likely,” muttered Sloan, leaning forward with an interested expression.

Ignoring the comment, Eragon asked, “Will this be enough?”

Sloan picked up the stone and gauged its weight speculatively. He ran his hands over its
smoothness and inspected the white veins. With a calculating look, he set it down. “It’s
pretty, but how much is it worth?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Eragon, “but no one would have gone to the trouble of shaping
it unless it had some value.”

“Obviously,” said Sloan with exaggerated patience. “But how much value? Since you
don’t know, I suggest that you find a trader who does, or take my offer of three crowns.”

“That’s a miser’s bargain! It must be worth at least ten times that,” protested Eragon.
Three crowns would not even buy enough meat to last a week.

Sloan shrugged. “If you don’t like my offer, wait until the traders arrive. Either way, I’m
tired of this conversation.”

The traders were a nomadic group of merchants and entertainers who visited Carvahall
every spring and winter. They bought whatever excess the villagers and local farmers had
managed to grow or make, and sold what they needed to live through another year: seeds,
animals, fabric, and supplies like salt and sugar.

But Eragon did not want to wait until they arrived; it could be a while, and his family
needed the meat now. “Fine, I accept,” he snapped.

“Good, I’ll get you the meat. Not that it matters, but where did you find this?”

“Two nights ago in the Spine—”


“Get out!” demanded Sloan, pushing the stone away. He stomped furiously to the end of
the counter and started scrubbing old bloodstains off a knife.

“Why?” asked Eragon. He drew the stone closer, as if to protect it from Sloan’s wrath.

“I won’t deal with anything you bring back from those damned mountains! Take your
sorcerer’s stone elsewhere.” Sloan’s hand suddenly slipped and he cut a finger on the
knife, but he seemed not to notice. He continued to scrub, staining the blade with fresh
blood.

“You refuse to sell to me!”

“Yes! Unless you pay with coins,” Sloan growled, and hefted the knife, sidling away.
“Go, before I make you!”

The door behind them slammed open. Eragon whirled around, ready for more trouble. In
stomped Horst, a hulking man. Sloan’s daughter, Katrina—a tall girl of sixteen—trailed
behind him with a determined expression. Eragon was surprised to see her; she usually
absented herself from any arguments involving her father. Sloan glanced at them warily,
then started to accuse Eragon. “He won’t—”

“Quiet,” announced Horst in a rumbling voice, cracking his knuckles at the same time.
He was Carvahall’s smith, as his thick neck and scarred leather apron attested. His
powerful arms were bare to the elbow; a great expanse of hairy muscular chest was
visible through the top of his shirt. A black beard, carelessly trimmed, roiled and knotted
like his jaw muscles. “Sloan, what have you done now?”

“Nothing.” He gave Eragon a murderous gaze, then spat, “This . . .boy came in here and
started badgering me. I asked him to leave, but he won’t budge. I even threatened him
and he still ignored me!” Sloan seemed to shrink as he looked at Horst.

“Is this true?” demanded the smith.

“No!” replied Eragon. “I offered this stone as payment for some meat, and he accepted it.
When I told him that I’d found it in the Spine, he refused to even touch it. What
difference does it make where it came from?”

Horst looked at the stone curiously, then returned his attention to the butcher. “Why
won’t you trade with him, Sloan? I’ve no love for the Spine myself, but if it’s a question
of the stone’s worth, I’ll back it with my own money.”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Then Sloan licked his lips and said, “This is
my own store. I can do whatever I want.”


Katrina stepped out from behind Horst and tossed back her auburn hair like a spray of
molten copper. “Father, Eragonis willing to pay. Give him the meat, and then we can
have supper.”


Sloan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Go back to the house; this is none of your business.
. . . I saidgo !” Katrina’s face hardened, then she marched out of the room with a stiff
back.


Eragon watched with disapproval but dared not interfere. Horst tugged at his beard before
saying reproachfully, “Fine, you can deal with me. What were you going to get, Eragon?”
His voice reverberated through the room.


“As much as I could.”


Horst pulled out a purse and counted out a pile of coins. “Give me your best roasts and
steaks. Make sure that it’s enough to fill Eragon’s pack.” The butcher hesitated, his gaze
darting between Horst and Eragon. “Not selling to me would be a very bad idea,” stated
Horst.


Glowering venomously, Sloan slipped into the back room. A frenzy of chopping,
wrapping, and low cursing reached them. After several uncomfortable minutes, he
returned with an armful of wrapped meat. His face was expressionless as he accepted
Horst’s money, then proceeded to clean his knife, pretending that they were not there.


Horst scooped up the meat and walked outside. Eragon hurried behind him, carrying his
pack and the stone. The crisp night air rolled over their faces, refreshing after the stuffy
shop.


“Thank you, Horst. Uncle Garrow will be pleased.”


Horst laughed quietly. “Don’t thank me. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Sloan’s a
vicious troublemaker; it does him good to be humbled. Katrina heard what was
happening and ran to fetch me. Good thing I came—the two of you were almost at blows.
Unfortunately, I doubt he’ll serve you or any of your family the next time you go in there,
even if you do have coins.”


“Why did he explode like that? We’ve never been friendly, but he’s always taken our
money. And I’ve never seen him treat Katrina that way,” said Eragon, opening the top of
the pack.


Horst shrugged. “Ask your uncle. He knows more about it than I do.”


Eragon stuffed the meat into his pack. “Well, now I have one more reason to hurry home
. . . to solve this mystery. Here, this is rightfully yours.” He proffered the stone.



Horst chuckled. “No, you keep your strange rock. As for payment, Albriech plans to
leave for Feinster next spring. He wants to become a master smith, and I’m going to need
an assistant. You can come and work off the debt on your spare days.”

Eragon bowed slightly, delighted. Horst had two sons, Albriech and Baldor, both of
whom worked in his forge. Taking one’s place was a generous offer. “Again, thank you! I
look forward to working with you.” He was glad that there was a way for him to pay
Horst. His uncle would never accept charity. Then Eragon remembered what his cousin
had told him before he had left on the hunt. “Roran wanted me to give Katrina a message,
but since I can’t, can you get it to her?”

“Of course.”

“He wants her to know that he’ll come into town as soon as the merchants arrive and that
he will see her then.”

“That all?”

Eragon was slightly embarrassed. “No, he also wants her to know that she is the most
beautiful girl he has ever seen and that he thinks of nothing else.”

Horst’s face broke into a broad grin, and he winked at Eragon. “Getting serious, isn’t
he?”

“Yes, sir,” Eragon answered with a quick smile. “Could you also give her my thanks? It
was nice of her to stand up to her father for me. I hope that she isn’t punished because of
it. Roran would be furious if I got her into trouble.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Sloan doesn’t know that she called me, so I doubt he’ll be too
hard on her. Before you go, will you sup with us?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Garrow is expecting me,” said Eragon, tying off the top of the
pack. He hoisted it onto his back and started down the road, raising his hand in farewell.

The meat slowed him down, but he was eager to be home, and renewed vigor filled his
steps. The village ended abruptly, and he left its warm lights behind. The pearlescent
moon peeked over the mountains, bathing the land in a ghostly reflection of daylight.
Everything looked bleached and flat.

Near the end of his journey, he turned off the road, which continued south. A simple path
led straight through waist-high grass and up a knoll, almost hidden by the shadows of
protective elm trees. He crested the hill and saw a gentle light shining from his home.

The house had a shingled roof and a brick chimney. Eaves hung over the whitewashed
walls, shadowing the ground below. One side of the enclosed porch was filled with split
wood, ready for the fire. A jumble of farm tools cluttered the other side.


The house had been abandoned for half a century when they moved in after Garrow’s
wife, Marian, died. It was ten miles from Carvahall, farther than anyone else’s. People
considered the distance dangerous because the family could not rely on help from the
village in times of trouble, but Eragon’s uncle would not listen.

A hundred feet from the house, in a dull-colored barn, lived two horses—Birka and
Brugh—with chickens and a cow. Sometimes there was also a pig, but they had been
unable to afford one this year. A wagon sat wedged between the stalls. On the edge of
their fields, a thick line of trees traced along the Anora River.

He saw a light move behind a window as he wearily reached the porch. “Uncle, it’s
Eragon. Let me in.” A small shutter slid back for a second, then the door swung inward.

Garrow stood with his hand on the door. His worn clothes hung on him like rags on a
stick frame. A lean, hungry face with intense eyes gazed out from under graying hair. He
looked like a man who had been partly mummified before it was discovered that he was
still alive. “Roran’s sleeping,” was his answer to Eragon’s inquiring glance.

A lantern flickered on a wood table so old that the grain stood up in tiny ridges like a
giant fingerprint. Near a woodstove were rows of cooking utensils tacked onto the wall
with homemade nails. A second door opened to the rest of the house. The floor was made
of boards polished smooth by years of tramping feet.

Eragon pulled off his pack and took out the meat. “What’s this? Did you buy meat?
Where did you get the money?” asked his uncle harshly as he saw the wrapped packages.

Eragon took a breath before answering. “No, Horst bought it for us.”

“You let him pay for it? I told you before, I won’t beg for our food. If we can’t feed
ourselves, we might as well move into town. Before you can turn around twice, they’ll be
sending us used clothes and asking if we’ll be able to get through the winter.” Garrow’s
face paled with anger.

“I didn’t accept charity,” snapped Eragon. “Horst agreed to let me work off the debt this
spring. He needs someone to help him because Albriech is going away.”

“And where will you get the time to work for him? Are you going to ignore all the things
that need to be done here?” asked Garrow, forcing his voice down.

Eragon hung his bow and quiver on hooks beside the front door. “I don’t know how I’ll
do it,” he said irritably. “Besides, I found something that could be worth some money.”
He set the stone on the table.

Garrow bowed over it: the hungry look on his face became ravenous, and his fingers
moved with a strange twitch. “You found this in the Spine?”


“Yes,” said Eragon. He explained what had happened. “And to make matters worse, I lost
my best arrow. I’ll have to make more before long.” They stared at the stone in the near
darkness.

“How was the weather?” asked his uncle, lifting the stone. His hands tightened around it
like he was afraid it would suddenly disappear.

“Cold,” was Eragon’s reply. “It didn’t snow, but it froze each night.”

Garrow looked worried by the news. “Tomorrow you’ll have to help Roran finish
harvesting the barley. If we can get the squash picked, too, the frost won’t bother us.” He
passed the stone to Eragon. “Here, keep it. When the traders come, we’ll find out what
it’s worth. Selling it is probably the best thing to do. The less we’re involved with magic,
the better. . . . Why did Horst pay for the meat?”

It took only a moment for Eragon to explain his argument with Sloan. “I just don’t
understand what angered him so.”

Garrow shrugged. “Sloan’s wife, Ismira, went over the Igualda Falls a year before you
were brought here. He hasn’t been near the Spine since, nor had anything to do with it.
But that’s no reason to refuse payment. I think he wanted to give you trouble.”

Eragon swayed blearily and said, “It’s good to be back.” Garrow’s eyes softened, and he
nodded. Eragon stumbled to his room, pushed the stone under his bed, then fell onto the
mattress.Home . For the first time since before the hunt, he relaxed completely as sleep
overtook him.

DRAGONTALES

At dawn the sun’s rays streamed through the window, warming Eragon’s face. Rubbing
his eyes, he sat up on the edge of the bed. The pine floor was cold under his feet. He
stretched his sore legs and rubbed his back, yawning.

Beside the bed was a row of shelves covered with objects he had collected. There were
twisted pieces of wood, odd bits of shells, rocks that had broken to reveal shiny interiors,
and strips of dry grass tied into knots. His favorite item was a root so convoluted he never
tired of looking at it. The rest of the room was bare, except for a small dresser and
nightstand.

He pulled on his boots and stared at the floor, thinking. This was a special day. It was
near this very hour, sixteen years ago, that his mother, Selena, had come home to
Carvahall alone and pregnant. She had been gone for six years, living in the cities. When
she returned, she wore expensive clothes, and her hair was bound by a net of pearls. She
had sought out her brother, Garrow, and asked to stay with him until the baby arrived.
Within five months her son was born. Everyone was shocked when Selena tearfully


begged Garrow and Marian to raise him. When they asked why, she only wept and said,
“I must.” Her pleas had grown increasingly desperate until they finally agreed. She
named him Eragon, then departed early the next morning and never returned.

Eragon still remembered how he had felt when Marian told him the story before she died.
The realization that Garrow and Marian were not his real parents had disturbed him
greatly. Things that had been permanent and unquestionable were suddenly thrown into
doubt. Eventually he had learned to live with it, but he always had a nagging suspicion
that he had not been good enough for his mother.I’m sure there was a good reason for
what she did; I only wish I knew what it was.

One other thing bothered him: Who was his father? Selena had told no one, and whoever
it might be had never come looking for Eragon. He wished that he knew who it was, if
only to have a name. It would be nice to know his heritage.

He sighed and went to the nightstand, where he splashed his face, shivering as the water
ran down his neck. Refreshed, he retrieved the stone from under the bed and set it on a
shelf. The morning light caressed it, throwing a warm shadow on the wall. He touched it
one more time, then hurried to the kitchen, eager to see his family. Garrow and Roran
were already there, eating chicken. As Eragon greeted them, Roran stood with a grin.

Roran was two years older than Eragon, muscular, sturdy, and careful with his
movements. They could not have been closer even if they had been real brothers.

Roran smiled. “I’m glad you’re back. How was the trip?”

“Hard,” replied Eragon. “Did Uncle tell you what happened?” He helped himself to a
piece of chicken, which he devoured hungrily.

“No,” said Roran, and the story was quickly told. At Roran’s insistence, Eragon left his
food to show him the stone. This elicited a satisfactory amount of awe, but Roran soon
asked nervously, “Were you able to talk with Katrina?”

“No, there wasn’t an opportunity after the argument with Sloan. But she’ll expect you
when the traders come. I gave the message to Horst; he will get it to her.”

“You told Horst?” said Roran incredulously. “That was private. If I wanted everyone to
know about it, I could have built a bonfire and used smoke signals to communicate. If
Sloan finds out, he won’t let me see her again.”

“Horst will be discreet,” assured Eragon. “He won’t let anyone fall prey to Sloan, least of
all you.” Roran seemed unconvinced, but argued no more. They returned to their meals in
the taciturn presence of Garrow. When the last bites were finished, all three went to work
in the fields.


The sun was cold and pale, providing little comfort. Under its watchful eye, the last of the
barley was stored in the barn. Next, they gathered prickly vined squash, then the
rutabagas, beets, peas, turnips, and beans, which they packed into the root cellar. After
hours of labor, they stretched their cramped muscles, pleased that the harvest was
finished.

The following days were spent pickling, salting, shelling, and preparing the food for
winter.

Nine days after Eragon’s return, a vicious blizzard blew out of the mountains and settled
over the valley. The snow came down in great sheets, blanketing the countryside in
white. They only dared leave the house for firewood and to feed the animals, for they
feared getting lost in the howling wind and featureless landscape. They spent their time
huddled over the stove as gusts rattled the heavy window shutters. Days later the storm
finally passed, revealing an alien world of soft white drifts.

“I’m afraid the traders may not come this year, with conditions this bad,” said Garrow.
“They’re late as it is. We’ll give them a chance and wait before going to Carvahall. But if
they don’t show soon, we’ll have to buy any spare supplies from the townspeople.” His
countenance was resigned.

They grew anxious as the days crept by without sign of the traders. Talk was sparse, and
depression hung over the house.

On the eighth morning, Roran walked to the road and confirmed that the traders had not
yet passed. The day was spent readying for the trip into Carvahall, scrounging with grim
expressions for saleable items. That evening, out of desperation, Eragon checked the road
again. He found deep ruts cut into the snow, with numerous hoofprints between them.
Elated, he ran back to the house whooping, bringing new life to their preparations.

They packed their surplus produce into the wagon before sunrise. Garrow put the year’s
money in a leather pouch that he carefully fastened to his belt. Eragon set the wrapped
stone between bags of grain so it would not roll when the wagon hit bumps.

After a hasty breakfast, they harnessed the horses and cleared a path to the road. The
traders’ wagons had already broken the drifts, which sped their progress. By noon they
could see Carvahall.

In daylight, it was a small earthy village filled with shouts and laughter. The traders had
made camp in an empty field on the outskirts of town. Groups of wagons, tents, and fires
were randomly spread across it, spots of color against the snow. The troubadours’ four
tents were garishly decorated. A steady stream of people linked the camp to the village.


Crowds churned around a line of bright tents and booths clogging the main street. Horses
whinnied at the noise. The snow had been pounded flat, giving it a glassy surface;
elsewhere, bonfires had melted it. Roasted hazelnuts added a rich aroma to the smells
wafting around them.

Garrow parked the wagon and picketed the horses, then drew coins from his pouch. “Get
yourselves some treats. Roran, do what you want, only be at Horst’s in time for supper.
Eragon, bring that stone and come with me.” Eragon grinned at Roran and pocketed the
money, already planning how to spend it.

Roran departed immediately with a determined expression on his face. Garrow led
Eragon into the throng, shouldering his way through the bustle. Women were buying
cloth, while nearby their husbands examined a new latch, hook, or tool. Children ran up
and down the road, shrieking with excitement. Knives were displayed here, spices there,
and pots were laid out in shiny rows next to leather harnesses.

Eragon stared at the traders curiously. They seemed less prosperous than last year. Their
children had a frightened, wary look, and their clothes were patched. The gaunt men
carried swords and daggers with a new familiarity, and even the women had poniards
belted at their waists.

What could have happened to make them like this? And why are they so late?wondered
Eragon. He remembered the traders as being full of good cheer, but there was none of
that now. Garrow pushed down the street, searching for Merlock, a trader who
specialized in odd trinkets and pieces of jewelry.

They found him behind a booth, displaying brooches to a group of women. As each new
piece was revealed, exclamations of admiration followed. Eragon guessed that more than
a few purses would soon be depleted. Merlock seemed to flourish and grow every time
his wares were complimented. He wore a goatee, held himself with ease, and seemed to
regard the rest of the world with slight contempt.

The excited group prevented Garrow and Eragon from getting near the trader, so they
settled on a step and waited. As soon as Merlock was unoccupied, they hurried over.

“And what might you sirs want to look at?” asked Merlock. “An amulet or trinket for a
lady?” With a twirl he pulled out a delicately carved silver rose of excellent
workmanship. The polished metal caught Eragon’s attention, and he eyed it
appreciatively. The trader continued, “Not even three crowns, though it has come all the
way from the famed craftsmen of Belatona.”

Garrow spoke in a quiet voice. “We aren’t looking to buy, but to sell.” Merlock
immediately covered the rose and looked at them with new interest.


“I see. Maybe, if this item is of any value, you would like to trade it for one or two of
these exquisite pieces.” He paused for a moment while Eragon and his uncle stood
uncomfortably, then continued, “You didbring the object of consideration?”

“We have it, but we would rather show it to you elsewhere,” said Garrow in a firm voice.

Merlock raised an eyebrow, but spoke smoothly. “In that case, let me invite you to my
tent.” He gathered up his wares and gently laid them in an iron-bound chest, which he
locked. Then he ushered them up the street and into the temporary camp. They wound
between the wagons to a tent removed from the rest of the traders’. It was crimson at the
top and sable at the bottom, with thin triangles of colors stabbing into each other.
Merlock untied the opening and swung the flap to one side.

Small trinkets and strange pieces of furniture, such as a round bed and three seats carved
from tree stumps, filled the tent. A gnarled dagger with a ruby in the pommel rested on a
white cushion.

Merlock closed the flap and turned to them. “Please, seat yourselves.” When they had, he
said, “Now show me why we are meeting in private.” Eragon unwrapped the stone and
set it between the two men. Merlock reached for it with a gleam in his eye, then stopped
and asked, “May I?” When Garrow indicated his approval, Merlock picked it up.

He put the stone in his lap and reached to one side for a thin box. Opened, it revealed a
large set of copper scales, which he set on the ground. After weighing the stone, he
scrutinized its surface under a jeweler’s glass, tapped it gently with a wooden mallet, and
drew the point of a tiny clear stone over it. He measured its length and diameter, then
recorded the figures on a slate. He considered the results for a while. “Do you know what
this is worth?”

“No,” admitted Garrow. His cheek twitched, and he shifted uncomfortably on the seat.

Merlock grimaced. “Unfortunately, neither do I. But I can tell you this much: the white
veins are the same material as the blue that surrounds them, only a different color. What
that material might be, though, I haven’t a clue. It’s harder than any rock I have seen,
harder even than diamond. Whoever shaped it used tools I have never seen—or magic.
Also, it’s hollow.”

“What?” exclaimed Garrow.

An irritated edge crept into Merlock’s voice. “Did you ever hear a rock sound like this?”
He grabbed the dagger from the cushion and slapped the stone with the flat of the blade.
A pure note filled the air, then faded away smoothly. Eragon was alarmed, afraid that the
stone had been damaged. Merlock tilted the stone toward them. “You will find no
scratches or blemishes where the dagger struck. I doubt I could do anything to harm this
stone, even if I took a hammer to it.”


Garrow crossed his arms with a reserved expression. A wall of silence surrounded him.
Eragon was puzzled.I knew that the stone appeared in the Spine through magic, but made
by magic? What for and why? He blurted, “But what is it worth?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Merlock in a pained voice. “I am sure there are people who
would pay dearly to have it, but none of them are in Carvahall. You would have to go to
the southern cities to find a buyer. This is a curiosity for most people—not an item to
spend money on when practical things are needed.”

Garrow stared at the tent ceiling like a gambler calculating the odds. “Will you buy it?”

The trader answered instantly, “It’s not worth the risk. I might be able to find a wealthy
buyer during my spring travels, but I can’t be certain. Even if I did, you wouldn’t be paid
until I returned next year. No, you will have to find someone else to trade with. I am
curious, however . . . Why did you insist on talking to me in private?”

Eragon put the stone away before answering. “Because,” he glanced at the man,
wondering if he would explode like Sloan, “I found this in the Spine, and folks around
here don’t like that.”

Merlock gave him a startled look. “Do you know why my fellow merchants and I were
late this year?”

Eragon shook his head.

“Our wanderings have been dogged with misfortune. Chaos seems to rule Alagaësia. We
could not avoid illness, attacks, and the most cursed black luck. Because the Varden’s
attacks have increased, Galbatorix has forced cities to send more soldiers to the borders,
men who are needed to combat the Urgals. The brutes have been migrating southeast,
toward the Hadarac Desert. No one knows why and it wouldn’t concern us, except that
they’re passing through populated areas. They’ve been spotted on roads and near cities.
Worst of all are reports of a Shade, though the stories are unconfirmed. Not many people
survive such an encounter.”

“Why haven’t we heard of this?” cried Eragon.

“Because,” said Merlock grimly, “it only began a few months ago. Whole villages have
been forced to move because Urgals destroyed their fields and starvation threatens.”

“Nonsense,” growled Garrow. “We haven’t seen any Urgals; the only one around here
has his horns mounted in Morn’s tavern.”

Merlock arched an eyebrow. “Maybe so, but this is a small village hidden by mountains.
It’s not surprising that you’ve escaped notice. However, I wouldn’t expect that to last. I
only mentioned this because strange things are happening here as well if you found such


a stone in the Spine.” With that sobering statement, he bid them farewell with a bow and
slight smile.

Garrow headed back to Carvahall with Eragon trailing behind. “What do you think?”
asked Eragon.

“I’m going to get more information before I make up my mind. Take the stone back to
the wagon, then do what you want. I’ll meet you for dinner at Horst’s.”

Eragon dodged through the crowd and happily dashed back to the wagon. Trading would
take his uncle hours, time that he planned to enjoy fully. He hid the stone under the bags,
then set out into town with a cocky stride.

He walked from one booth to another, evaluating the goods with a buyer’s eye, despite
his meager supply of coins. When he talked with the merchants, they confirmed what
Merlock had said about the instability in Alagaësia. Over and over the message was
repeated: last year’s security has deserted us; new dangers have appeared, and nothing is
safe.

Later in the day he bought three sticks of malt candy and a small piping-hot cherry pie.
The hot food felt good after hours of standing in the snow. He licked the sticky syrup
from his fingers regretfully, wishing for more, then sat on the edge of a porch and nibbled
a piece of candy. Two boys from Carvahall wrestled nearby, but he felt no inclination to
join them.

As the day descended into late afternoon, the traders took their business into people’s
homes. Eragon was impatient for evening, when the troubadours would come out to tell
stories and perform tricks. He loved hearing about magic, gods, and, if they were
especially lucky, the Dragon Riders. Carvahall had its own storyteller, Brom—a friend of
Eragon’s—but his tales grew old over the years, whereas the troubadours always had new
ones that he listened to eagerly.

Eragon had just broken off an icicle from the underside of the porch when he spotted
Sloan nearby. The butcher had not seen him, so Eragon ducked his head and bolted
around a corner toward Morn’s tavern.

The inside was hot and filled with greasy smoke from sputtering tallow candles. The
shiny-black Urgal horns, their twisted span as great as his outstretched arms, were
mounted over the door. The bar was long and low, with a stack of staves on one end for
customers to carve. Morn tended the bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The bottom
half of his face was short and mashed, as if he had rested his chin on a grinding wheel.
People crowded solid oak tables and listened to two traders who had finished their
business early and had come in for beer.

Morn looked up from a mug he was cleaning. “Eragon! Good to see you. Where’s your
uncle?”


“Buying,” said Eragon with a shrug. “He’s going to be a while.”

“And Roran, is he here?” asked Morn as he swiped the cloth through another mug.

“Yes, no sick animals to keep him back this year.”

“Good, good.”

Eragon gestured at the two traders. “Who are they?”

“Grain buyers. They bought everyone’s seed at ridiculously low prices, and now they’re
telling wild stories, expecting us to believe them.”

Eragon understood why Morn was so upset.People need that money. We can’t get by
without it. “What kind of stories?”

Morn snorted. “They say the Varden have formed a pact with the Urgals and are massing
an army to attack us.Supposedly , it’s only through the grace of our king that we’ve been
protected for so long—as if Galbatorix would care if we burned to the ground. . . . Go
listen to them. I have enough on my hands without explaining their lies.”

The first trader filled a chair with his enormous girth; his every movement caused it to
protest loudly. There was no hint of hair on his face, his pudgy hands were baby smooth,
and he had pouting lips that curled petulantly as he sipped from a flagon. The second man
had a florid face. The skin around his jaw was dry and corpulent, filled with lumps of
hard fat, like cold butter gone rancid. Contrasted with his neck and jowls, the rest of his
body was unnaturally thin.

The first trader vainly tried to pull back his expanding borders to fit within the chair. He
said, “No, no, you don’t understand. It is only through the king’s unceasing efforts on
your behalf that you are able to argue with us in safety. If he, in all his wisdom, were to
withdraw that support, woe unto you!”

Someone hollered, “Right, why don’t you also tell us the Riders have returned and
you’ve each killed a hundred elves. Do you think we’re children to believe in your tales?
We can take care of ourselves.” The group chuckled.

The trader started to reply when his thin companion intervened with a wave of his hand.
Gaudy jewels flashed on his fingers. “You misunderstand. We know the Empire cannot
care for each of us personally, as you may want, but it can keep Urgals and other
abominations from overrunning this,” he searched vaguely for the right term, “place.”

The trader continued, “You’re angry with the Empire for treating people unfairly, a
legitimate concern, but a government cannot please everyone. There will inevitably be
arguments and conflicts. However, the majority of us have nothing to complain about.


Every country has some small group of malcontents who aren’t satisfied with the balance
of power.”

“Yeah,” called a woman, “if you’re willing to call the Varden small!”

The fat man sighed. “We already explained that the Varden have no interest in helping
you. That’s only a falsehood perpetuated by the traitors in an attempt to disrupt the
Empire and convince us that the real threat is inside—not outside—our borders. All they
want to do is overthrow the king and take possession of our land. They have spies
everywhere as they prepare to invade. You never know who might be working for them.”

Eragon did not agree, but the traders’ words were smooth, and people were nodding. He
stepped forward and said, “How do you know this? I can say that clouds are green, but
that doesn’t mean it’s true. Prove you aren’t lying.” The two men glared at him while the
villagers waited silently for the answer.

The thin trader spoke first. He avoided Eragon’s eyes. “Aren’t your children taught
respect? Or do you let boys challenge men whenever they want to?”

The listeners fidgeted and stared at Eragon. Then a man said, “Answer the question.”

“It’s only common sense,” said the fat one, sweat beading on his upper lip. His reply riled
the villagers, and the dispute resumed.

Eragon returned to the bar with a sour taste in his mouth. He had never before met
anyone who favored the Empire and tore down its enemies. There was a deep-seated
hatred of the Empire in Carvahall, almost hereditary in nature. The Empire never helped
them during harsh years when they nearly starved, and its tax collectors were heartless.
He felt justified in disagreeing with the traders regarding the king’s mercy, but he did
speculate about the Varden.

The Varden were a rebel group that constantly raided and attacked the Empire. It was a
mystery who their leader was or who had formed them in the years following
Galbatorix’s rise to power over a century ago. The group had garnered much sympathy as
they eluded Galbatorix’s efforts to destroy them. Little was known about the Varden
except that if you were a fugitive and had to hide, or if you hated the Empire, they would
accept you. The only problem was finding them.

Morn leaned over the bar and said, “Incredible, isn’t it? They’re worse than vultures
circling a dying animal. There’s going to be trouble if they stay much longer.”

“For us or for them?”

“Them,” said Morn as angry voices filled the tavern. Eragon left when the argument
threatened to become violent. The door thudded shut behind him, cutting off the voices. It
was early evening, and the sun was sinking rapidly; the houses cast long shadows on the


ground. As Eragon headed down the street, he noticed Roran and Katrina standing in an
alley.

Roran said something Eragon could not hear. Katrina looked down at her hands and
answered in an undertone, then leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him before darting
away. Eragon trotted to Roran and teased, “Having a good time?” Roran grunted
noncommittally as he paced away.

“Have you heard the traders’ news?” asked Eragon, following. Most of the villagers were
indoors, talking to traders or waiting until it was dark enough for the troubadours to
perform.

“Yes.” Roran seemed distracted. “What do you think of Sloan?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

“There’ll be blood between us when he finds out about Katrina and me,” stated Roran. A
snowflake landed on Eragon’s nose, and he looked up. The sky had turned gray. He could
think of nothing appropriate to say; Roran was right. He clasped his cousin on the
shoulder as they continued down the byway.

Dinner at Horst’s was hearty. The room was full of conversation and laughter. Sweet
cordials and heavy ales were consumed in copious amounts, adding to the boisterous
atmosphere. When the plates were empty, Horst’s guests left the house and strolled to the
field where the traders were camped. A ring of poles topped with candles had been stuck
into the ground around a large clearing. Bonfires blazed in the background, painting the
ground with dancing shadows. The villagers slowly gathered around the circle and waited
expectantly in the cold.

The troubadours came tumbling out of their tents, dressed in tasseled clothing, followed
by older and more stately minstrels. The minstrels provided music and narration as their
younger counterparts acted out the stories. The first plays were pure entertainment:
bawdy and full of jokes, pratfalls, and ridiculous characters. Later, however, when the
candles sputtered in their sockets and everyone was drawn together into a tight circle, the
old storyteller Brom stepped forward. A knotted white beard rippled over his chest, and a
long black cape was wrapped around his bent shoulders, obscuring his body. He spread
his arms with hands that reached out like talons and recited thus:

“The sands of time cannot be stopped. Years pass whether we will them or not . . . but we
can remember. What has been lost may yet live on in memories. That which you will hear
is imperfect and fragmented, yet treasure it, for without you it does not exist. I give you
now a memory that has been forgotten, hidden in the dreamy haze that lies behind us.”

His keen eyes inspected their interested faces. His gaze lingered on Eragon last of all.


“Before your grandfathers’ fathers were born, and yea, even before their fathers, the
Dragon Riders were formed. To protect and guard was their mission, and for thousands of
years they succeeded. Their prowess in battle was unmatched, for each had the strength
of ten men. They were immortal unless blade or poison took them. For good only were
their powers used, and under their tutelage tall cities and towers were built out of the
living stone. While they kept peace, the land flourished. It was a golden time. The elves
were our allies, the dwarves our friends. Wealth flowed into our cities, and men
prospered. But weep . . . for it could not last.”

Brom looked down silently. Infinite sadness resonated in his voice.

“Though no enemy could destroy them, they could not guard against themselves. And it
came to pass at the height of their power that a boy, Galbatorix by name, was born in the
province of Inzilbêth, which is no more. At ten he was tested, as was the custom, and it
was found that great power resided in him. The Riders accepted him as their own.

“Through their training he passed, exceeding all others in skill. Gifted with a sharp mind
and strong body, he quickly took his place among the Riders’ ranks. Some saw his abrupt
rise as dangerous and warned the others, but the Riders had grown arrogant in their power
and ignored caution. Alas, sorrow was conceived that day.

“So it was that soon after his training was finished, Galbatorix took a reckless trip with
two friends. Far north they flew, night and day, and passed into the Urgals’ remaining
territory, foolishly thinking their new powers would protect them. There on a thick sheet
of ice, unmelted even in summer, they were ambushed in their sleep. Though his friends
and their dragons were butchered and he suffered great wounds, Galbatorix slew his
attackers. Tragically, during the fight a stray arrow pierced his dragon’s heart. Without
the arts to save her, she died in his arms. Then were the seeds of madness planted.”

The storyteller clasped his hands and looked around slowly, shadows flickering across his
worn face. The next words came like the mournful toll of a requiem.

“Alone, bereft of much of his strength and half mad with loss, Galbatorix wandered
without hope in that desolate land, seeking death. It did not come to him, though he threw
himself without fear against any living thing. Urgals and other monsters soon fled from
his haunted form. During this time he came to realize that the Riders might grant him
another dragon. Driven by this thought, he began the arduous journey, on foot, back
through the Spine. Territory he had soared over effortlessly on a dragon’s back now took
him months to traverse. He could hunt with magic, but oftentimes he walked in places
where animals did not travel. Thus when his feet finally left the mountains, he was close
to death. A farmer found him collapsed in the mud and summoned the Riders.

“Unconscious, he was taken to their holdings, and his body healed. He slept for four
days. Upon awakening he gave no sign of his fevered mind. When he was brought before
a council convened to judge him, Galbatorix demanded another dragon. The desperation
of the request revealed his dementia, and the council saw him for what he truly was.


Denied his hope, Galbatorix, through the twisted mirror of his madness, came to believe
it was the Riders’ fault his dragon had died. Night after night he brooded on that and
formulated a plan to exact revenge.”

Brom’s words dropped to a mesmerizing whisper.

“He found a sympathetic Rider, and there his insidious words took root. By persistent
reasoning and the use of dark secrets learned from a Shade, he inflamed the Rider against
their elders. Together they treacherously lured and killed an elder. When the foul deed
was done, Galbatorix turned on his ally and slaughtered him without warning. The Riders
found him, then, with blood dripping from his hands. A scream tore from his lips, and he
fled into the night. As he was cunning in his madness, they could not find him.

“For years he hid in wastelands like a hunted animal, always watching for pursuers. His
atrocity was not forgotten, but over time searches ceased. Then through some ill fortune
he met a young Rider, Morzan—strong of body, but weak of mind. Galbatorix convinced
Morzan to leave a gate unbolted in the citadel Ilirea, which is now called Urû’baen.
Through this gate Galbatorix entered and stole a dragon hatchling.

“He and his new disciple hid themselves in an evil place where the Riders dared not
venture. There Morzan entered into a dark apprenticeship, learning secrets and forbidden
magic that should never have been revealed. When his instruction was finished and
Galbatorix’s black dragon, Shruikan, was fully grown, Galbatorix revealed himself to the
world, with Morzan at his side. Together they fought any Rider they met. With each kill
their strength grew. Twelve of the Riders joined Galbatorix out of desire for power and
revenge against perceived wrongs. Those twelve, with Morzan, became the Thirteen
Forsworn. The Riders were unprepared and fell beneath the onslaught. The elves, too,
fought bitterly against Galbatorix, but they were overthrown and forced to flee to their
secret places, from whence they come no more.

“Only Vrael, leader of the Riders, could resist Galbatorix and the Forsworn. Ancient and
wise, he struggled to save what he could and keep the remaining dragons from falling to
his enemies. In the last battle, before the gates of Dorú Areaba, Vrael defeated
Galbatorix, but hesitated with the final blow. Galbatorix seized the moment and smote
him in the side. Grievously wounded, Vrael fled to Utgard Mountain, where he hoped to
gather strength. But it was not to be, for Galbatorix found him. As they fought,
Galbatorix kicked Vrael in the fork of his legs. With that underhanded blow, he gained
dominance over Vrael and removed his head with a blazing sword.

“Then as power rushed through his veins, Galbatorix anointed himself king over all
Alagaësia.

“And from that day, he has ruled us.”


With the completion of the story, Brom shuffled away with the troubadours. Eragon
thought he saw a tear shining on his cheek. People murmured quietly to each other as
they departed. Garrow said to Eragon and Roran, “Consider yourselves fortunate. I have
heard this tale only twice in my life. If the Empire knew that Brom had recited it, he
would not live to see a new month.”

FATE’SGIFT

The evening after their return from Carvahall, Eragon decided to test the stone as
Merlock had. Alone in his room, he set it on his bed and laid three tools next to it. He
started with a wooden mallet and lightly tapped the stone. It produced a subtle ringing.
Satisfied, he picked up the next tool, a heavy leather hammer. A mournful peal
reverberated when it struck. Lastly, he pounded a small chisel against it. The metal did
not chip or scratch the stone, but it produced the clearest sound yet. As the final note died
away, he thought he heard a faint squeak.

Merlock said the stone was hollow; there could be something of value inside. I don’t
know how to open it, though. There must have been a good reason for someone to shape
it, but whoever sent the stone into the Spine hasn’t taken the trouble to retrieve it or
doesn’t know where it is. But I don’t believe that a magician with enough power to
transport the stone wouldn’t be able to find it again. So was I meant to have it?He could
not answer the question. Resigned to an unsolvable mystery, he picked up the tools and
returned the stone to its shelf.

That night he was abruptly roused from sleep. He listened carefully. All was quiet.
Uneasy, he slid his hand under the mattress and grasped his knife. He waited a few
minutes, then slowly sank back to sleep.

A squeak pierced the silence, tearing him back to wakefulness. He rolled out of bed and
yanked the knife from its sheath. Fumbling with a tinderbox, he lit a candle. The door to
his room was closed. Though the squeak was too loud for a mouse or rat, he still checked
under the bed. Nothing. He sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed the sleep from his
eyes. Another squeak filled the air, and he started violently.

Where was the noise was coming from? Nothing could be in the floor or walls; they were
solid wood. The same went for his bed, and he would have noticed if anything had
crawled into his straw mattress during the night. His eyes settled on the stone. He took it
off the shelf and absently cradled it as he studied the room. A squeak rang in his ears and
reverberated through his fingers; it came from the stone.

The stone had given him nothing but frustration and anger, and now it would not even let
him sleep! It ignored his furious glare and sat solidly, occasionally peeping. Then it gave


one very loud squeak and fell silent. Eragon warily put it away and got back under the
sheets. Whatever secret the stone held, it would have to wait until morning.

The moon was shining through his window when he woke again. The stone was rocking
rapidly on the shelf, knocking against the wall. It was bathed in cool moonlight that
bleached its surface. Eragon jumped out of bed, knife in hand. The motion stopped, but
he remained tense. Then the stone started squeaking and rocking faster than ever.

With an oath, he began dressing. He did not care how valuable the stone might be; he was
going to take it far away and bury it. The rocking stopped; the stone became quiet. It
quivered, then rolled forward and dropped onto the floor with a loud thump. He inched
toward the door in alarm as the stone wobbled toward him.

Suddenly a crack appeared on the stone. Then another and another. Transfixed, Eragon
leaned forward, still holding the knife. At the top of the stone, where all the cracks met, a
small piece wobbled, as if it were balanced on something, then rose and toppled to the
floor. After another series of squeaks, a small dark head poked out of the hole, followed
by a weirdly angled body. Eragon gripped the knife tighter and held very still. Soon the
creature was all the way out of the stone. It stayed in place for a moment, then skittered
into the moonlight.

Eragon recoiled in shock. Standing in front of him, licking off the membrane that encased
it, was a dragon.

AWAKENING

The dragon was no longer than his forearm, yet it was dignified and noble. Its scales
were deep sapphire blue, the same color as the stone. But not a stone, he realized, an egg.
The dragon fanned its wings; they were what had made it appear so contorted. The wings
were several times longer than its body and ribbed with thin fingers of bone that extended
from the wing’s front edge, forming a line of widely spaced talons. The dragon’s head
was roughly triangular. Two diminutive white fangs curved down out of its upper jaw.
They looked very sharp. Its claws were also white, like polished ivory, and slightly
serrated on the inside curve. A line of small spikes ran down the creature’s spine from the
base of its head to the tip of its tail. A hollow where its neck and shoulders joined created
a larger-than-normal gap between the spikes.

Eragon shifted slightly, and the dragon’s head snapped around. Hard, ice-blue eyes fixed
on him. He kept very still. It might be a formidable enemy if it decided to attack.

The dragon lost interest in Eragon and awkwardly explored the room, squealing as it
bumped into a wall or furniture. With a flutter of wings, it leapt onto the bed and crawled
to his pillow, squeaking. Its mouth was open pitifully, like a young bird’s, displaying
rows of pointed teeth. Eragon sat cautiously on the end of the bed. The dragon smelled
his hand, nibbled his sleeve. He pulled his arm back.


A smile tugged at Eragon’s lips as he looked at the small creature. Tentatively, he
reached out with his right hand and touched its flank. A blast of icy energy surged into
his hand and raced up his arm, burning in his veins like liquid fire. He fell back with a
wild cry. An iron clang filled his ears, and he heard a soundless scream of rage. Every
part of his body seared with pain. He struggled to move, but was unable to. After what
seemed like hours, warmth seeped back into his limbs, leaving them tingling. Shivering
uncontrollably, he pushed himself upright. His hand was numb, his fingers paralyzed.
Alarmed, he watched as the middle of his palm shimmered and formed a diffused white
oval. The skin itched and burned like a spider bite. His heart pounded frantically.

Eragon blinked, trying to understand what had occurred. Something brushed against his
consciousness, like a finger trailing over his skin. He felt it again, but this time it
solidified into a tendril of thought through which he could feel a growing curiosity. It was
as if an invisible wall surrounding his thoughts had fallen away, and he was now free to
reach out with his mind. He was afraid that without anything to hold him back, he would
float out of his body and be unable to return, becoming a spirit of the ether. Scared, he
pulled away from the contact. The new sense vanished as if he had closed his eyes. He
glared suspiciously at the motionless dragon.

A scaly leg scraped against his side, and he jerked back. But the energy did not shock
him again. Puzzled, he rubbed the dragon’s head with his right hand. A light tingling ran
up his arm. The dragon nuzzled him, arching its back like a cat. He slid a finger over its
thin wing membranes. They felt like old parchment, velvety and warm, but still slightly
damp. Hundreds of slender veins pulsed through them.

Again the tendril touched his mind, but this time, instead of curiosity, he sensed an
overpowering, ravenous hunger. He got up with a sigh. This was a dangerous animal, of
that he was sure. Yet it seemed so helpless crawling on his bed, he could only wonder if
there was any harm in keeping it. The dragon wailed in a reedy tone as it looked for food.
Eragon quickly scratched its head to keep it quiet.I’ll think about this later, he decided,
and left the room, carefully closing the door.

Returning with two strips of dried meat, he found the dragon sitting on the windowsill,
watching the moon. He cut the meat into small squares and offered one to the dragon. It
smelled the square cautiously, then jabbed its head forward like a snake and snatched the
meat from his fingers, swallowing it whole with a peculiar jerk. The dragon prodded
Eragon’s hand for more food.

He fed it, careful to keep his fingers out of the way. By the time there was only one
square left, the dragon’s belly was bulging. He proffered the last piece; the dragon
considered it for a moment, then lazily snapped it up. Done eating, it crawled onto his
arm and curled against his chest. Then it snorted, a puff of dark smoke rising from its
nostrils. Eragon looked at it with wonder.

Just when he thought the dragon was asleep, a low humming came from its vibrating
throat. Gently, he carried it to the bed and set it by his pillow. The dragon, eyes closed,


wrapped its tail around the bedpost contentedly. Eragon lay next to it, flexing his hand in
the near darkness.

He faced a painful dilemma: By raising a dragon, he could become a Rider. Myths and
stories about Riders were treasured, and being one would automatically place him among
those legends. However, if the Empire discovered the dragon, he and his family would be
put to death unless he joined the king. No one could—or would—help them. The simplest
solution was just to kill the dragon, but the idea was repugnant, and he rejected it.
Dragons were too revered for him to even consider that.Besides, what could betray us? he
thought.We live in a remote area and have done nothing to draw attention.

The problem was convincing Garrow and Roran to let him keep the dragon. Neither of
them would care to have a dragon around.I could raise it in secret. In a month or two it
will be too large for Garrow to get rid of, but will he accept it? Even if he does, can I get
enough food for the dragon while it’s hiding? It’s no larger than a small cat, but it ate an
entire handful of meat! I suppose it’ll be able to hunt for itself eventually, but how long
until then? Will it be able to survive the cold outside? All the same, he wanted the
dragon. The more he thought about it, the surer he was. However things might work out
with Garrow, Eragon would do everything he could to protect it. Determined, he fell
asleep with the dragon cradled against him.

When dawn came, the dragon was sitting atop his bedpost, like an ancient sentinel
welcoming the new day. Eragon marveled at its color. He had never seen such a clear,
hard blue. Its scales were like hundreds of small gemstones. He noticed that the white
oval on his palm, where he had touched the dragon, had a silvery sheen. He hoped he
could hide it by keeping his hands dirty.

The dragon launched off the post and glided to the floor. Eragon gingerly picked it up
and left the quiet house, pausing to grab meat, several leather strips, and as many rags as
he could carry. The crisp morning was beautiful; a fresh layer of snow covered the farm.
He smiled as the small creature looked around with interest from the safety of his arms.

Hurrying across the fields, he walked silently into the dark forest, searching for a safe
place for the dragon to stay. Eventually he found a rowan tree standing alone on a barren
knoll, its branches snow-tipped gray fingers that reached toward the sky. He set the
dragon down by the base of the trunk and shook the leather onto the ground.

With a few deft movements, he made a noose and slipped it over the dragon’s head as it
explored the snowy clumps surrounding the tree. The leather was worn, but it would
hold. He watched the dragon crawl around, then untied the noose from its neck and
fashioned a makeshift harness for its legs so the dragon would not strangle itself. Next he
gathered an armful of sticks and built a crude hut high in the branches, layering the inside
with rags and stashing the meat. Snow fell on his face as the tree swayed. He hung more
rags over the front of the shelter to keep heat inside. Pleased, he surveyed his work.


“Time to show you your new home,” he said, and lifted the dragon up into the branches.
It wriggled, trying to get free, then clambered into the hut, where it ate a piece of meat,
curled up, and blinked coyly at him. “You’ll be fine as long as you stay in here,” he
instructed. The dragon blinked again.

Sure that it had not understood him, Eragon groped with his mind until he felt the
dragon’s consciousness. Again he had the terrible feeling ofopenness —of a space so
large it pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. Summoning his strength, he focused
on the dragon and tried to impress on it one idea:Stay here. The dragon stopped moving
and cocked its head at him. He pushed harder:Stay here. A dim acknowledgment came
tentatively through the link, but Eragon wondered if it really understood.After all, it’s
only an animal. He retreated from the contact with relief and felt the safety of his own
mind envelop him.

Eragon left the tree, casting glances backward. The dragon stuck its head out of the
shelter and watched with large eyes as he left.

After a hurried walk home, he sneaked back into his room to dispose of the egg
fragments. He was sure Garrow and Roran would not notice the egg’s absence—it had
faded from their thoughts after they learned it could not be sold. When his family got up,
Roran mentioned that he had heard some noises during the night but, to Eragon’s relief,
did not pursue the issue.

Eragon’s enthusiasm made the day go by quickly. The mark on his hand proved easy to
hide, so he soon stopped worrying about it. Before long he headed back to the rowan,
carrying sausages he had pilfered from the cellar. With apprehension, he approached the
tree.Is the dragon able to survive outside in winter?

His fears were groundless. The dragon was perched on a branch, gnawing on something
between its front legs. It started squeaking excitedly when it saw him. He was pleased to
see that it had remained in the tree, above the reach of large predators. As soon as he
dropped the sausages at the base of the trunk, the dragon glided down. While it
voraciously tore apart the food, Eragon examined the shelter. All the meat he had left was
gone, but the hut was intact, and tufts of feathers littered the floor.Good. It can get its
own food.

It struck him that he did not know if the dragon was a he or a she. He lifted and turned it
over, ignoring its squeals of displeasure, but was unable to find any distinguishing
marks.It seems like it won’t give up any secrets without a struggle.

He spent a long time with the dragon. He untied it, set it on his shoulder, and went to
explore the woods. The snow-laden trees watched over them like solemn pillars of a great
cathedral. In that isolation, Eragon showed the dragon what he knew about the forest, not
caring if it understood his meaning. It was the simple act of sharing that mattered. He
talked to it continuously. The dragon gazed back at him with bright eyes, drinking in his
words. For a while he just sat with it resting in his arms and watched it with wonder, still


stunned by recent events. Eragon started for home at sunset, conscious of two hard blue
eyes drilling into his back, indignant at being left behind.

That night he brooded about all the things that could happen to a small and unprotected
animal. Thoughts of ice storms and vicious animals tormented him. It took hours for him
to find sleep. His dreams were of foxes and black wolves tearing at the dragon with
bloody teeth.

In the sunrise glow, Eragon ran from the house with food and scraps of cloth—extra
insulation for the shelter. He found the dragon awake and safe, watching the sunrise from
high in the tree. He fervently thanked all the gods, known and unknown. The dragon
came down to the ground as he approached and leapt into his arms, huddling close to his
chest. The cold had not harmed it, but it seemed frightened. A puff of dark smoke blew
out of its nostrils. He stroked it comfortingly and sat with his back to the rowan,
murmuring softly. He kept still as the dragon buried its head in his coat. After a while it
crawled out of his embrace and onto his shoulder. He fed it, then wrapped the new rags
around the hut. They played together for a time, but Eragon had to return to the house
before long.

A smooth routine was quickly established. Every morning Eragon ran out to the tree and
gave the dragon breakfast before hurrying back. During the day he attacked his chores
until they were finished and he could visit the dragon again. Both Garrow and Roran
noted his behavior and asked why he spent so much time outside. Eragon just shrugged
and started checking to make sure he was not followed to the tree.

After the first few days he stopped worrying that a mishap would befall the dragon. Its
growth was explosive; it would soon be safe from most dangers. The dragon doubled in
size in the first week. Four days later it was as high as his knee. It no longer fit inside the
hut in the rowan, so Eragon was forced to build a hidden shelter on the ground. The task
took him three days.

When the dragon was a fortnight old, Eragon was compelled to let it roam free because it
needed so much food. The first time he untied it, only the force of his will kept it from
following him back to the farm. Every time it tried, he pushed it away with his mind until
it learned to avoid the house and its other inhabitants.

And he impressed on the dragon the importance of hunting only in the Spine, where there
was less chance of being seen. Farmers would notice if game started disappearing from
Palancar Valley. It made him feel both safer and uneasy when the dragon was so far
away.

The mental contact he shared with the dragon waxed stronger each day. He found that
although it did not comprehend words, he could communicate with it through images or
emotions. It was an imprecise method, however, and he was often misunderstood. The


range at which they could touch each other’s thoughts expanded rapidly. Soon Eragon
could contact the dragon anywhere within three leagues. He often did so, and the dragon,
in turn, would lightly brush against his mind. These mute conversations filled his
working hours. There was always a small part of him connected to the dragon, ignored at
times, but never forgotten. When he talked with people, the contact was distracting, like a
fly buzzing in his ear.

As the dragon matured, its squeaks deepened to a roar and the humming became a low
rumble, yet the dragon did not breathe fire, which concerned him. He had seen it blow
smoke when it was upset, but there was never a hint of flame.

When the month ended, Eragon’s elbow was level with the dragon’s shoulder. In that
brief span, it had transformed from a small, weak animal into a powerful beast. Its hard
scales were as tough as chain-mail armor, its teeth like daggers.

Eragon took long walks in the evening with the dragon padding beside him. When they
found a clearing, he would settle against a tree and watch the dragon soar through the air.
He loved to see it fly and regretted that it was not yet big enough to ride. He often sat
beside the dragon and rubbed its neck, feeling sinews and corded muscles flex under his
hands.

Despite Eragon’s efforts, the forest around the farm filled with signs of the dragon’s
existence. It was impossible to erase all the huge four-clawed footprints sunk deep in the
snow, and he refused even to try to hide the giant dung heaps that were becoming far too
common. The dragon had rubbed against trees, stripping off the bark, and had sharpened
its claws on dead logs, leaving gashes inches deep. If Garrow or Roran went too far
beyond the farm’s boundaries, they would discover the dragon. Eragon could imagine no
worse way for the truth to come out, so he decided to preempt it by explaining everything
to them.

He wanted to do two things first, though: give the dragon a suitable name and learn more
about dragons in general. To that end he needed to talk with Brom, master of epics and
legends—the only places where dragonlore survived.

So when Roran went to get a chisel repaired in Carvahall, Eragon volunteered to go with
him.

The evening before they left, Eragon went to a small clearing in the forest and called the
dragon with his mind. After a moment he saw a fast-moving speck in the dusky sky. The
dragon dived toward him, pulled up sharply, then leveled off above the trees. He heard a
low-pitched whistle as air rushed over its wings. It banked slowly to his left and spiraled
gently down to the ground. The dragon back-flapped for balance with a deep,
muffledthwump as it landed.


Eragon opened his mind, still uncomfortable with the strange sensation, and told the
dragon that he was leaving. It snorted with unease. He attempted to soothe it with a
calming mental picture, but the dragon whipped its tail, unsatisfied. He rested his hand on
its shoulder and tried to radiate peace and serenity. Scales bumped under his fingers as he
patted it gently.

A single word rang in his head, deep and clear.

Eragon.

It was solemn and sad, as if an unbreakable pact were being sealed. He stared at the
dragon and a cold tingle ran down his arm.

Eragon.

A hard knot formed in his stomach as unfathomable sapphire eyes gazed back at him. For
the first time he did not think of the dragon as an animal. It was something else,
something . . . different. He raced home, trying to escape the dragon.My dragon.

Eragon.

TEA FORTWO

Roran and Eragon parted at the outskirts of Carvahall. Eragon walked slowly to Brom’s
house, engrossed in his thoughts. He stopped at the doorstep and raised his hand to
knock.

A voice rasped, “What do you want, boy?”

He whirled around. Behind him Brom leaned on a twisted staff embellished with strange
carvings. He wore a brown hooded robe like a friar. A pouch hung from the scuffed
leather belt clasped around his waist. Above his white beard, a proud eagle nose hooked
over his mouth and dominated his face. He peered at Eragon with deep-set eyes
shadowed by a gnarled brow and waited for his reply.

“To get information,” Eragon said. “Roran is getting a chisel fixed and I had free time, so
I came to see if you could answer a few questions.”

The old man grunted and reached for the door. Eragon noticed a gold ring on his right
hand. Light glinted off a sapphire, highlighting a strange symbol carved on its face. “You
might as well come in; we’ll be talking awhile. Your questions never seem to end.”
Inside, the house was darker than charcoal, an acrid smell heavy in the air. “Now, for a
light.” Eragon heard the old man move around, then a low curse as something crashed to
the floor. “Ah, here we go.” A white spark flashed; a flame wavered into existence.


Brom stood with a candle before a stone fireplace. Stacks of books surrounded a high-
backed, deeply carved wooden chair that faced the mantel; the four legs were shaped like
eagle claws, and the seat and back were padded with leather embossed with a swirling
rose pattern. A cluster of lesser chairs held piles of scrolls. Ink pots and pens were
scattered across a writing desk. “Make room for yourself, but by the lost kings, becareful
. This stuff is valuable.”

Eragon stepped over pages of parchment covered with angular runes. He gently lifted
cracking scrolls off a chair and placed them on the floor. A cloud of dust flew into the air
as he sat. He stifled a sneeze.

Brom bent down and lit the fire with his candle. “Good! Nothing like sitting by a fire for
conversation.” He threw back his hood to reveal hair that was not white, but silver, then
hung a kettle over the flames and settled into the high-backed chair.

“Now, what do you want?” He addressed Eragon roughly, but not unkindly.

“Well,” said Eragon, wondering how best to approach the subject, “I keep hearing about
the Dragon Riders and their supposed accomplishments. Most everyone seems to want
them to return, but I’ve never heard tell of how they were started, where the dragons
came from, or what made the Riders special—aside from the dragons.”

“A vast subject to tell about,” grumbled Brom. He peered at Eragon alertly. “If I told you
their whole story, we would still be sitting here when winter comes again. It will have to
be reduced to a manageable length. But before we start properly, I need my pipe.”

Eragon waited patiently as Brom tamped down the tobacco. He liked Brom. The old man
was irascible at times, but he never seemed to mind taking time for Eragon. Eragon had
once asked him where he came from, and Brom had laughed, saying, “A village much
like Carvahall, only not quite as interesting.” Curiosity aroused, Eragon asked his uncle.
But Garrow could only tell him that Brom had bought a house in Carvahall nearly fifteen
years ago and had lived there quietly ever since.

Brom used a tinderbox to light the pipe. He puffed a few times, then said, “There . . . we
won’t have to stop, except for the tea. Now, about the Riders, or the Shur’tugal, as they
are called by the elves. Where to start? They spanned countless years and, at the height of
their power, held sway over twice the Empire’s lands. Numerous stories have been told
about them, most nonsense. If you believed everything said, you would expect them to
have the powers of a lesser god. Scholars have devoted entire lives to separating these
fictions from fact, but it’s doubtful any of them will succeed. However, it isn’t an
impossible task if we confine ourselves to the three areas you specified: how the Riders
began, why they were so highly regarded, and where dragons came from. I shall start
with the last item.” Eragon settled back and listened to the man’s mesmerizing voice.

“Dragons have no beginning, unless it lies with the creation of Alagaësia itself. And if
they have an end, it will be when this world perishes, for they suffer as the land does.


They, the dwarves, and a few others are the true inhabitants of this land. They lived here
before all others, strong and proud in their elemental glory. Their world was unchanging
until the first elves sailed over the sea on their silver ships.”

“Where did the elves come from?” interrupted Eragon. “And why are they called the fair
folk? Do they really exist?”

Brom scowled. “Do you want your original questions answered or not? They won’t be if
you want to explore every obscure piece of knowledge.”

“Sorry,” said Eragon. He dipped his head and tried to look contrite.

“No, you’re not,” said Brom with some amusement. He shifted his gaze to the fire and
watched it lick the underside of the kettle. “If you must know, elves are not legends, and
they are called the fair folk because they are more graceful than any of the other races.
They come from what they call Alalea, though none but they know what, or even where,
it is.

“Now,” he glared from under his bushy eyebrows to make sure there would be no more
interruptions, “the elves were a proud race then, and strong in magic. At first they
regarded dragons as mere animals. From that belief rose a deadly mistake. A brash elven
youth hunted down a dragon, as he would a stag, and killed it. Outraged, the dragons
ambushed and slaughtered the elf. Unfortunately, the bloodletting did not stop there. The
dragons massed together and attacked the entire elven nation. Dismayed by the terrible
misunderstanding, the elves tried to end the hostilities, but couldn’t find a way to
communicate with the dragons.

“Thus, to greatly abbreviate a complicated series of occurrences, there was a very long
and very bloody war, which both sides later regretted. At the beginning the elves fought
only to defend themselves, for they were reluctant to escalate the fighting, but the
dragons’ ferocity eventually forced them to attack for their own survival. This lasted for
five years and would have continued for much longer if an elf called Eragon hadn’t found
a dragon egg.” Eragon blinked in surprise. “Ah, I see you didn’t know of your
namesake,” said Brom.

“No.” The teakettle whistled stridently.Why was I named after an elf?

“Then you should find this all the more interesting,” said Brom. He hooked the kettle out
of the fire and poured boiling water into two cups. Handing one to Eragon, he warned,
“These leaves don’t need to steep long, so drink it quickly before it gets too strong.”
Eragon tried a sip, but scalded his tongue. Brom set his own cup aside and continued
smoking the pipe.

“No one knows why that egg was abandoned. Some say the parents were killed in an
elven attack. Others believe the dragons purposefully left it there. Either way, Eragon saw
the value of raising a friendly dragon. He cared for it secretly and, in the custom of the


ancient language, named him Bid’Daum. When Bid’Daum had grown to a good size,
they traveled together among the dragons and convinced them to live in peace with the
elves. Treaties were formed between the two races. To ensure that war would never break
out again, they decided that it was necessary to establish the Riders.

“At first the Riders were intended merely as a means of communication between the
elves and dragons. However, as time passed, their worth was recognized and they were
given ever more authority. Eventually they took the island Vroengard for their home and
built a city on it—Dorú Areaba. Before Galbatorix overthrew them, the Riders held more
power than all the kings in Alagaësia. Now I believe I have answered two of your
questions.”

“Yes,” said Eragon absently. It seemed like an incredible coincidence that he had been
named after the first Rider. For some reason his name did not feel the same anymore.
“What doesEragon mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Brom. “It’s very old. I doubt anyone remembers except the elves,
and fortune would have to smile greatly before you talked with one. It is a good name to
have, though; you should be proud of it. Not everyone has one so honorable.”

Eragon brushed the matter from his mind and focused on what he had learned from
Brom; there was something missing. “I don’t understand. Where were we when the
Riders were created?”

“We?” asked Brom, raising an eyebrow.

“You know, all of us.” Eragon waved his hands vaguely. “Humans in general.”

Brom laughed. “We are no more native to this land than the elves. It took our ancestors
another three centuries to arrive here and join the Riders.”

“That can’t be,” protested Eragon. “We’ve always lived in Palancar Valley.”

“That might be true for a few generations, but beyond that, no. It isn’t even true for you,
Eragon,” said Brom gently. “Though you consider yourself part of Garrow’s family, and
rightly so, your sire was not from here. Ask around and you’ll find many people who
haven’t been here that long. This valley is old and hasn’t always belonged to us.”

Eragon scowled and gulped at the tea. It was still hot enough to burn his throat. This was
his home, regardless of who his father was! “What happened to the dwarves after the
Riders were destroyed?”

“No one really knows. They fought with the Riders through the first few battles, but
when it became clear Galbatorix was going to win, they sealed all the known entrances to
their tunnels and disappeared underground. As far as I know, not one has been seen
since.”


“And the dragons?” he asked. “What of them? Surely they weren’t all killed.”

Brom answered sorrowfully, “That is the greatest mystery in Alagaësia nowadays: How
many dragons survived Galbatorix’s murderous slaughter? He spared those who agreed
to serve him, but only the twisted dragons of the Forsworn would assist his madness. If
any dragons aside from Shruikan are still alive, they have hidden themselves so they will
never be found by the Empire.”

So wheredidmy dragon come from?wondered Eragon. “Were the Urgals here when the
elves came to Alagaësia?” he asked.

“No, they followed the elves across the sea, like ticks seeking blood. They were one of
the reasons the Riders became valued for their battle prowess and ability to keep the
peace. . . . Much can be learned from this history. It’s a pity the king makes it a delicate
subject,” reflected Brom.

“Yes, I heard your story the last time I was in town.”

“Story!” roared Brom. Lightning flashed in his eyes. “If it is a story, then the rumors of
my death are true and you are speaking with a ghost! Respect the past; you never know
how it may affect you.”

Eragon waited until Brom’s face mellowed before he dared ask, “How big were the
dragons?”

A dark plume of smoke swirled above Brom like a miniature thunderstorm. “Larger than
a house. Even the small ones had wingspans over a hundred feet; they never stopped
growing. Some of the ancient ones, before the Empire killed them, could have passed for
large hills.”

Dismay swept through Eragon.How can I hide my dragon in the years to come? He raged
silently, but kept his voice calm. “When did they mature?”

“Well,” said Brom, scratching his chin, “they couldn’t breathe fire until they were around
five to six months old, which was about when they could mate. The older a dragon was,
the longer it could breathe fire. Some of them could keep at it for minutes.” Brom blew a
smoke ring and watched it float up to the ceiling.

“I heard that their scales shone like gems.”

Brom leaned forward and growled, “You heard right. They came in every color and
shade. It was said that a group of them looked like a living rainbow, constantly shifting
and shimmering. But who told you that?”

Eragon froze for a second, then lied, “A trader.”


“What was his name?” asked Brom. His tangled eyebrows met in a thick white line; the
wrinkles deepened on his forehead. Unnoticed, the pipe smoldered out.

Eragon pretended to think. “I don’t know. He was talking in Morn’s, but I never found
out who he was.”

“I wish you had,” muttered Brom.

“He also said a Rider could hear his dragon’s thoughts,” said Eragon quickly, hoping that
the fictitious trader would protect him from suspicion.

Brom’s eyes narrowed. Slowly he took out a tinderbox and struck the flint. Smoke rose,
and he took a long pull from the pipe, exhaling slowly. In a flat voice he said, “He was
wrong. It isn’t in any of the stories, and I know them all. Did he say anything else?”

Eragon shrugged. “No.” Brom was too interested in the trader for him to continue the
falsehood. Casually he inquired, “Did dragons live very long?”

Brom did not respond at once. His chin sank to his chest while his fingers tapped the pipe
thoughtfully, light reflecting off his ring. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Yes, a dragon
will live for quite a while, forever, in fact, as long as it isn’t killed and its Rider doesn’t
die.”

“How does anyone know that?” objected Eragon. “If dragons die when their Riders do,
they could only live to be sixty or seventy. You said during your . . . narration that Riders
lived for hundreds of years, but that’s impossible.” It troubled him to think of outliving
his family and friends.

A quiet smile curled Brom’s lips as he said slyly, “What is possible is subjective. Some
would say that you cannot travel through the Spine and live, yet you do. It’s a matter of
perspective. You must be very wise to know so much at such a young age.” Eragon
flushed, and the old man chuckled. “Don’t be angry; you can’t be expected to know such
things. You forget that the dragons were magical—they affected everything around them
in strange ways. The Riders were closest to them and experienced this the most. The most
common side effect was an extended life. Our king has lived long enough to make that
apparent, but most people attribute it to his own magical abilities. There were also other,
less noticeable changes. All the Riders were stronger of body, keener of mind, and truer
of sight than normal men. Along with this, a human Rider would slowly acquire pointed
ears, though they were never as prominent as an elf’s.”

Eragon had to stop his hand from reaching up to feel the tips of his ears.How else will this
dragon change my life? Not only has it gotten inside my head, but it’s altering my body
as well! “Were dragons very smart?”


“Didn’t you pay attention to what I told you earlier!” demanded Brom. “How could the
elves form agreements and peace treaties with dumb brutes? They were as intelligent as
you or I.”

“But they were animals,” persisted Eragon.

Brom snorted. “They were no more animals than we are. For some reason people praise
everything the Riders did, yet ignore the dragons, assuming that they were nothing more
than an exotic means to get from one town to another. They weren’t. The Riders’ great
deeds were only possible because of the dragons. How many men would draw their
swords if they knew a giant fire-breathing lizard—one with more natural cunning and
wisdom than even a king could hope for—would soon be there to stop the violence?
Hmm?” He blew another smoke ring and watched it waft away.

“Did you ever see one?”

“Nay,” said Brom, “it was long before my time.”

And now for a name.“I’ve been trying to recall the name of a certain dragon, but it keeps
eluding me. I think I heard it when the traders were in Carvahall, but I’m not sure. Could
you help me?”

Brom shrugged and quickly listed a stream of names. “There was Jura, Hírador, and
Fundor—who fought the giant sea snake. Galzra, Briam, Ohen the Strong, Gretiem,
Beroan, Roslarb . . .” He added many others. At the very end, he uttered so softly Eragon
almost did not hear, “. . . and Saphira.” Brom quietly emptied his pipe. “Was it any of
those?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Eragon. Brom had given him much to think about, and it was
getting late. “Well, Roran’s probably finished with Horst. I should get back, though I’d
rather not.”

Brom raised an eyebrow. “What, is that it? I expected to be answering your questions
until he came looking for you. No queries about dragon battle tactics or requests for
descriptions of breathtaking aerial combat? Are we done?”

“For now,” laughed Eragon. “I learned what I wanted to and more.” He stood and Brom
followed.

“Very well, then.” He ushered Eragon to the door. “Goodbye. Take care. And don’t
forget, if you remember who that trader was, tell me.”

“I will. Thank you.” Eragon stepped into the glaring winter sunlight, squinting. He slowly
paced away, pondering what he had heard.

ANAME OFPOWER


On the way home Roran said, “There was a stranger from Therinsford at Horst’s
today.”
“What’s his name?” asked Eragon. He sidestepped a patch of ice and continued walking
at a brisk pace. His cheeks and eyes burned from the cold.
“Dempton. He came here to have Horst forge him some sockets,” said Roran. His stocky
legs plowed through a drift, clearing the way for Eragon.
“Doesn’t Therinsford have its own smith?”
“Yes,” replied Roran, “but he isn’t skilled enough.” He glanced at Eragon. With a shrug
he added, “Dempton needs the sockets for his mill. He’s expanding it and offered me a
job. If I accept, I’ll leave with him when he picks up the sockets.”
Millers worked all year. During winter they ground whatever people brought them, but in
harvest season they bought grain and sold it as flour. It was hard, dangerous work;
workers often lost fingers or hands to the giant millstones. “Are you going to tell
Garrow?” asked Eragon.
“Yes.” A grimly amused smile played across Roran’s face.
“What for? You know what he thinks about us going away. It’ll only cause trouble if you
say anything. Forget about it so we can eat tonight’s dinner in peace.”
“I can’t. I’m going to take the job.”
Eragon halted. “Why?” They faced each other, their breath visible in the air. “I know
money is hard to come by, but we always manage to survive. You don’t have to leave.”
“No, I don’t. But the money is for myself.” Roran tried to resume walking, but Eragon
refused to budge.
“What do you need it for?” he demanded.
Roran’s shoulders straightened slightly. “I want to marry.”
Bewilderment and astonishment overwhelmed Eragon. He remembered seeing Katrina
and Roran kissing during the traders’ visit, but marriage? “Katrina?” he asked weakly,
just to confirm. Roran nodded. “Have you asked her?”
“Not yet, but come spring, when I can raise a house, I will.”
“There’s too much work on the farm for you to leave now,” protested Eragon. “Wait until
we’re ready for planting.”



“No,” said Roran, laughing slightly. “Spring’s the time I’ll be needed the most. The
ground will have to be furrowed and sown. The crops must be weeded—not to mention
all the other chores. No, this is the best time for me to go, when all we really do is wait
for the seasons to change. You and Garrow can make do without me. If all goes well, I’ll
soon be back working on the farm, with a wife.”

Eragon reluctantly conceded that Roran made sense. He shook his head, but whether with
amazement or anger, he knew not. “I guess I can only wish you the best of luck. But
Garrow may take this with ill humor.”

“We will see.”

They resumed walking, the silence a barrier between them. Eragon’s heart was disturbed.
It would take time before he could look upon this development with favor. When they
arrived home, Roran did not tell Garrow of his plans, but Eragon was sure that he soon
would.

Eragon went to see the dragon for the first time since it had spoken to him. He
approached apprehensively, aware now that it was an equal.

Eragon.

“Is that all you can say?” he snapped.

Yes.

His eyes widened at the unexpected reply, and he sat down roughly.Now it has a sense of
humor. What next? Impulsively, he broke a dead branch with his foot. Roran’s
announcement had put him in a foul mood. A questioning thought came from the dragon,
so he told it what had happened. As he talked his voice grew steadily louder until he was
yelling pointlessly into the air. He ranted until his emotions were spent, then ineffectually
punched the ground.

“I don’t want him to go, that’s all,” he said helplessly. The dragon watched impassively,
listening and learning. Eragon mumbled a few choice curses and rubbed his eyes. He
looked at the dragon thoughtfully. “You need a name. I heard some interesting ones
today; perhaps you’ll like one.” He mentally ran through the list Brom had given him
until he found two names that struck him as heroic, noble, and pleasing to the ear. “What
do you think of Vanilor or his successor, Eridor? Both were great dragons.”

No,said the dragon. It sounded amused with his efforts.Eragon.

“That’smy name; you can’t have it,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Well, if you don’t like
those, there are others.” He continued through the list, but the dragon rejected every one


he proposed. It seemed to be laughing at something Eragon did not understand, but he
ignored it and kept suggesting names. “There was Ingothold, he slew the . . .” A
revelation stopped him.That’s the problem! I’ve been choosing male names. You are a
she!

Yes.The dragon folded her wings smugly.

Now that he knew what to look for, he came up with half a dozen names. He toyed with
Miremel, but that did not fit—after all, it was the name of a brown dragon. Opheila and
Lenora were also discarded. He was about to give up when he remembered the last name
Brom had muttered. Eragon liked it, but would the dragon?

He asked.

“Are you Saphira?” She looked at him with intelligent eyes. Deep in his mind he felt her
satisfaction.

Yes.Something clicked in his head and her voice echoed, as if from a great distance. He
grinned in response. Saphira started humming.

AMILLER-TO-BE

The sun had set by the time dinner was served. A blustery wind howled outside, shaking
the house. Eragon eyed Roran closely and waited for the inevitable. Finally: “I was
offered a job at Therinsford’s mill . . . which I plan to take.”

Garrow finished his mouthful of food with deliberate slowness and laid down his fork.
He leaned back in his chair, then interlaced his fingers behind his head and uttered one
dry word, “Why?”

Roran explained while Eragon absently picked at his food.

“I see,” was Garrow’s only comment. He fell silent and stared at the ceiling. No one
moved as they awaited his response. “Well, when do you leave?”

“What?” asked Roran.

Garrow leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. “Did you think I would stop you? I’d
hoped you would marry soon. It will be good to see this family growing again. Katrina
will be lucky to have you.” Astonishment raced over Roran’s face, then he settled into a
relieved grin. “So when do you leave?” Garrow asked.

Roran regained his voice. “When Dempton returns to get the sockets for the mill.”

Garrow nodded. “And that will be in . . . ?”


“Two weeks.”

“Good. That will give us time to prepare. It’ll be different to have the house to ourselves.
But if nothing goes amiss, it shouldn’t be for too long.” He looked over the table and
asked, “Eragon, did you know of this?”

He shrugged ruefully. “Not until today. . . . It’s madness.”

Garrow ran a hand over his face. “It’s life’s natural course.” He pushed himself up from
the chair. “All will be fine; time will settle everything. For now, though, let’s clean the
dishes.” Eragon and Roran helped him in silence.

The next few days were trying. Eragon’s temper was frayed. Except for curtly answering
direct questions, he spoke with no one. There were small reminders everywhere that
Roran was leaving: Garrow making him a pack, things missing from the walls, and a
strange emptiness that filled the house. It was almost a week before he realized that
distance had grown between Roran and him. When they spoke, the words did not come
easily and their conversations were uncomfortable.

Saphira was a balm for Eragon’s frustration. He could talk freely with her; his emotions
were completely open to her mind, and she understood him better than anyone else.
During the weeks before Roran’s departure, she went through another growth spurt. She
gained twelve inches at the shoulder, which was now higher than Eragon’s. He found that
the small hollow where her neck joined her shoulders was a perfect place to sit. He often
rested there in the evenings and scratched her neck while he explained the meanings of
different words. Soon she understood everything he said and frequently commented on it.

For Eragon, this part of his life was delightful. Saphira was as real and complex as any
person. Her personality was eclectic and at times completely alien, yet they understood
each other on a profound level. Her actions and thoughts constantly revealed new aspects
of her character. Once she caught an eagle and, instead of eating it, released it, saying,No
hunter of the sky should end his days as prey. Better to die on the wing than pinned to the
ground.

Eragon’s plan to let his family see Saphira was dispelled by Roran’s announcement and
Saphira’s own cautionary words. She was reluctant to be seen, and he, partly out of
selfishness, agreed. The moment her existence was divulged, he knew that shouts,
accusations, and fear would be directed at him . . . so he procrastinated. He told himself
to wait for a sign that it was the right time.

The night before Roran was to leave, Eragon went to talk with him. He stalked down the
hallway to Roran’s open door. An oil lamp rested on a nightstand, painting the walls with
warm flickering light. The bedposts cast elongated shadows on empty shelves that rose to
the ceiling. Roran—his eyes shaded and the back of his neck tense—was rolling blankets


around his clothes and belongings. He paused, then picked up something from the pillow
and bounced it in his hand. It was a polished rock Eragon had given him years ago. Roran
started to tuck it into the bundle, then stopped and set it on a shelf. A hard lump formed
in Eragon’s throat, and he left.

STRANGERS INCARVAHALL

Breakfast was cold, but the tea was hot. Ice inside the windows had melted with the
morning fire and soaked into the wood floor, staining it with dark puddles. Eragon looked
at Garrow and Roran by the kitchen stove and reflected that this would be the last time he
saw them together for many months.

Roran sat in a chair, lacing his boots. His full pack rested on the floor next to him.
Garrow stood between them with his hands stuck deep into his pockets. His shirt hung
loosely; his skin looked drawn. Despite the young men’s cajoling, he refused to go with
them. When pressed for a reason, he only said that it was for the best.

“Do you have everything?” Garrow asked Roran.

“Yes.”

He nodded and took a small pouch from his pocket. Coins clinked as he handed it to
Roran. “I’ve been saving this for you. It isn’t much, but if you wish to buy some bauble
or trinket, it will suffice.”

“Thank you, but I won’t be spending my money on trifles,” said Roran.

“Do what you will; it is yours,” said Garrow. “I’ve nothing else to give you, except a
father’s blessing. Take it if you wish, but it is worth little.”

Roran’s voice was thick with emotion. “I would be honored to receive it.”

“Then do, and go in peace,” said Garrow, and kissed him on the forehead. He turned and
said in a louder voice, “Do not think that I have forgotten you, Eragon. I have words for
both of you. It’s time I said them, as you are entering the world. Heed them and they will
serve you well.” He bent his gaze sternly on them. “First, let no one rule your mind or
body. Take special care that your thoughts remain unfettered. One may be a free man and
yet be bound tighter than a slave. Give men your ear, but not your heart. Show respect for
those in power, but don’t follow them blindly. Judge with logic and reason, but comment
not.

“Consider none your superior, whatever their rank or station in life. Treat all fairly or
they will seek revenge. Be careful with your money. Hold fast to your beliefs and others
will listen.” He continued at a slower pace, “Of the affairs of love . . . my only advice is


to be honest. That’s your most powerful tool to unlock a heart or gain forgiveness. That is
all I have to say.” He seemed slightly self-conscious of his speech.

He hoisted Roran’s pack. “Now you must go. Dawn is approaching, and Dempton will be
waiting.”

Roran shouldered the pack and hugged Garrow. “I will return as soon as I can,” he said.

“Good!” replied Garrow. “But now go and don’t worry about us.”

They parted reluctantly. Eragon and Roran went outside, then turned and waved. Garrow
raised a bony hand, his eyes grave, and watched as they trudged to the road. After a long
moment he shut the door. As the sound carried through the morning air, Roran halted.

Eragon looked back and surveyed the land. His eyes lingered on the lone buildings. They
looked pitifully small and fragile. A thin finger of smoke trailing up from the house was
the only proof that the snowbound farm was inhabited.

“There is our whole world,” Roran observed somberly.

Eragon shivered impatiently and grumbled, “A good one too.” Roran nodded, then
straightened his shoulders and headed into his new future. The house disappeared from
view as they descended the hill.

It was still early when they reached Carvahall, but they found the smithy doors already
open. The air inside was pleasantly warm. Baldor slowly worked two large bellows
attached to the side of a stone forge filled with sparkling coals. Before the forge stood a
black anvil and an iron-bound barrel filled with brine. From a line of neck-high poles
protruding from the walls hung rows of items: giant tongs, pliers, hammers in every
shape and weight, chisels, angles, center punches, files, rasps, lathes, bars of iron and
steel waiting to be shaped, vises, shears, picks, and shovels. Horst and Dempton stood
next to a long table.

Dempton approached with a smile beneath his flamboyant red mustache. “Roran! I’m
glad you came. There’s going to be more work than I can handle with my new
grindstones. Are you ready to go?”

Roran hefted his pack. “Yes. Do we leave soon?”

“I’ve a few things to take care of first, but we’ll be off within the hour.” Eragon shifted
his feet as Dempton turned to him, tugging at the corner of his mustache. “You must be
Eragon. I would offer you a job too, but Roran got the only one. Maybe in a year or two,
eh?”


Eragon smiled uneasily and shook his hand. The man was friendly. Under other
circumstances Eragon would have liked him, but right then, he sourly wished that the
miller had never come to Carvahall. Dempton huffed. “Good, very good.” He returned
his attention to Roran and started to explain how a mill worked.

“They’re ready to go,” interrupted Horst, gesturing at the table where several bundles
rested. “You can take them whenever you want to.” They shook hands, then Horst left the
smithy, beckoning to Eragon on the way out.

Interested, Eragon followed. He found the smith standing in the street with his arms
crossed. Eragon thrust his thumb back toward the miller and asked, “What do you think
of him?”

Horst rumbled, “A good man. He’ll do fine with Roran.” He absently brushed metal
filings off his apron, then put a massive hand on Eragon’s shoulder. “Lad, do you
remember the fight you had with Sloan?”

“If you’re asking about payment for the meat, I haven’t forgotten.”

“No, I trust you, lad. What I wanted to know is if you still have that blue stone.”

Eragon’s heart fluttered.Why does he want to know? Maybe someone saw Saphira!
Struggling not to panic, he said, “I do, but why do you ask?”

“As soon as you return home, get rid of it.” Horst overrode Eragon’s exclamation. “Two
men arrived here yesterday. Strange fellows dressed in black and carrying swords. It
made my skin crawl just to look at them. Last evening they started asking people if a
stone like yours had been found. They’re at it again today.” Eragon blanched. “No one
with any sense said anything. They know trouble when they see it, but I could name a
few people who will talk.”

Dread filled Eragon’s heart. Whoever had sent the stone into the Spine had finally
tracked it down. Or perhaps the Empire had learned of Saphira. He did not know which
would be worse.Think! Think! The egg is gone. It’s impossible for them to find it now.
But if they know what it was, it’ll be obvious what happened. . . . Saphira might be in
danger! It took all of his self-control to retain a casual air. “Thanks for telling me. Do
you know where they are?” He was proud that his voice barely trembled.

“I didn’t warn you because I thought you needed to meet those men! Leave Carvahall. Go
home.”

“All right,” said Eragon to placate the smith, “if you think I should.”

“I do.” Horst’s face softened. “I may be overreacting, but these strangers give me a bad
feeling. It would be better if you stay home until they leave. I’ll try to keep them away
from your farm, though it may not do any good.”


Eragon looked at him gratefully. He wished he could tell him about Saphira. “I’ll leave
now,” he said, and hurried back to Roran. Eragon clasped his cousin’s arm and bade him
farewell.

“Aren’t you going to stay awhile?” Roran asked with surprise.

Eragon almost laughed. For some reason, the question struck him as funny. “There’s
nothing for me to do, and I’m not going to stand around until you go.”

“Well,” said Roran doubtfully, “I guess this is the last time we’ll see each other for a few
months.”

“I’m sure it won’t seem that long,” said Eragon hastily. “Take care and come back soon.”
He hugged Roran, then left. Horst was still in the street. Aware that the smith was
watching, Eragon headed to the outskirts of Carvahall. Once the smithy was out of sight,
he ducked behind a house and sneaked back through the village.

Eragon kept to the shadows as he searched each street, listening for the slightest noise.
His thoughts flashed to his room, where his bow hung; he wished that it was in his hand.
He prowled across Carvahall, avoiding everyone until he heard a sibilant voice from
around a house. Although his ears were keen, he had to strain to hear what was being
said.

“When did this happen?” The words were smooth, like oiled glass, and seemed to worm
their way through the air. Underlying the speech was a strange hiss that made his scalp
prickle.

“About three months ago,” someone else answered. Eragon identified him as Sloan.

Shade’s blood, he’s telling them. . . .He resolved to punch Sloan the next time they met.

A third person spoke. The voice was deep and moist. It conjured up images of creeping
decay, mold, and other things best left untouched. “Are you sure? We would hate to think
you had made a mistake. If that were so, it would be most . . . unpleasant.” Eragon could
imagine only too well what they might do. Would anyone but the Empire dare threaten
people like that? Probably not, but whoever sent the egg might be powerful enough to use
force with impunity.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He had it then. I’m not lying. Plenty of people know about it. Go ask
them.” Sloan sounded shaken. He said something else that Eragon did not catch.

“They have been . . . rather uncooperative.” The words were derisive. There was a pause.
“Your information has been helpful. We will not forget you.” Eragon believed him.

Sloan muttered something, then Eragon heard someone hurrying away. He peered around
the corner to see what was happening. Two tall men stood in the street. Both were


dressed in long black cloaks that were lifted by sheaths poking past their legs. On their
shirts were insignias intricately wrought with silver thread. Hoods shaded their faces, and
their hands were covered by gloves. Their backs were oddly humped, as though their
clothes were stuffed with padding.

Eragon shifted slightly to get a better view. One of the strangers stiffened and grunted
peculiarly to his companion. They both swiveled around and sank into crouches.
Eragon’s breath caught. Mortal fear clenched him. His eyes locked onto their hidden
faces, and a stifling power fell over his mind, keeping him in place. He struggled against
it and screamed to himself,Move! His legs swayed, but to no avail. The strangers stalked
toward him with a smooth, noiseless gait. He knew they could see his face now. They
were almost to the corner, hands grasping at swords. . . .

“Eragon!” He jerked as his name was called. The strangers froze in place and hissed.
Brom hurried toward him from the side, head bare and staff in hand. The strangers were
blocked from the old man’s view. Eragon tried to warn him, but his tongue and arms
would not stir. “Eragon!” cried Brom again. The strangers gave Eragon one last look,
then slipped away between the houses.

Eragon collapsed to the ground, shivering. Sweat beaded on his forehead and made his
palms sticky. The old man offered Eragon a hand and pulled him up with a strong arm.
“You look sick; is all well?”

Eragon gulped and nodded mutely. His eyes flickered around, searching for anything
unusual. “I just got dizzy all of a sudden . . . it’s passed. It was very odd—I don’t know
why it happened.”

“You’ll recover,” said Brom, “but perhaps it would be better if you went home.”

Yes, I have to get home! Have to get there before they do.“I think you’re right. Maybe
I’m getting ill.”

“Then home is the best place for you. It’s a long walk, but I’m sure you will feel better by
the time you arrive. Let me escort you to the road.” Eragon did not protest as Brom took
his arm and led him away at a quick pace. Brom’s staff crunched in the snow as they
passed the houses.

“Why were you looking for me?”

Brom shrugged. “Simple curiosity. I learned you were in town and wondered if you had
remembered the name of that trader.”

Trader? What’s he talking about?Eragon stared blankly; his confusion caught the
attention of Brom’s probing eyes. “No,” he said, and then amended himself, “I’m afraid I
still don’t remember.”


Brom sighed gruffly, as if something had been confirmed, and rubbed his eagle nose.
“Well, then . . . if you do, come tell me. I am most interested in this trader who pretends
to know so much about dragons.” Eragon nodded with a distracted air. They walked in
silence to the road, then Brom said, “Hasten home. I don’t think it would be a good idea
to tarry on the way.” He offered a gnarled hand.

Eragon shook it, but as he let go something in Brom’s hand caught on his mitt and pulled
it off. It fell to the ground. The old man picked it up. “Clumsy of me,” he apologized, and
handed it back. As Eragon took the mitt, Brom’s strong fingers wrapped around his wrist
and twisted sharply. His palm briefly faced upward, revealing the silvery mark. Brom’s
eyes glinted, but he let Eragon yank his hand back and jam it into the mitt.

“Goodbye,” Eragon forced out, perturbed, and hurried down the road. Behind him he
heard Brom whistling a merry tune.

STRANGERS INCARVAHALL

Breakfast was cold, but the tea was hot. Ice inside the windows had melted with the
morning fire and soaked into the wood floor, staining it with dark puddles. Eragon looked
at Garrow and Roran by the kitchen stove and reflected that this would be the last time he
saw them together for many months.

Roran sat in a chair, lacing his boots. His full pack rested on the floor next to him.
Garrow stood between them with his hands stuck deep into his pockets. His shirt hung
loosely; his skin looked drawn. Despite the young men’s cajoling, he refused to go with
them. When pressed for a reason, he only said that it was for the best.

“Do you have everything?” Garrow asked Roran.

“Yes.”

He nodded and took a small pouch from his pocket. Coins clinked as he handed it to
Roran. “I’ve been saving this for you. It isn’t much, but if you wish to buy some bauble
or trinket, it will suffice.”

“Thank you, but I won’t be spending my money on trifles,” said Roran.

“Do what you will; it is yours,” said Garrow. “I’ve nothing else to give you, except a
father’s blessing. Take it if you wish, but it is worth little.”

Roran’s voice was thick with emotion. “I would be honored to receive it.”

“Then do, and go in peace,” said Garrow, and kissed him on the forehead. He turned and
said in a louder voice, “Do not think that I have forgotten you, Eragon. I have words for
both of you. It’s time I said them, as you are entering the world. Heed them and they will


serve you well.” He bent his gaze sternly on them. “First, let no one rule your mind or
body. Take special care that your thoughts remain unfettered. One may be a free man and
yet be bound tighter than a slave. Give men your ear, but not your heart. Show respect for
those in power, but don’t follow them blindly. Judge with logic and reason, but comment
not.

“Consider none your superior, whatever their rank or station in life. Treat all fairly or
they will seek revenge. Be careful with your money. Hold fast to your beliefs and others
will listen.” He continued at a slower pace, “Of the affairs of love . . . my only advice is
to be honest. That’s your most powerful tool to unlock a heart or gain forgiveness. That is
all I have to say.” He seemed slightly self-conscious of his speech.

He hoisted Roran’s pack. “Now you must go. Dawn is approaching, and Dempton will be
waiting.”

Roran shouldered the pack and hugged Garrow. “I will return as soon as I can,” he said.

“Good!” replied Garrow. “But now go and don’t worry about us.”

They parted reluctantly. Eragon and Roran went outside, then turned and waved. Garrow
raised a bony hand, his eyes grave, and watched as they trudged to the road. After a long
moment he shut the door. As the sound carried through the morning air, Roran halted.

Eragon looked back and surveyed the land. His eyes lingered on the lone buildings. They
looked pitifully small and fragile. A thin finger of smoke trailing up from the house was
the only proof that the snowbound farm was inhabited.

“There is our whole world,” Roran observed somberly.

Eragon shivered impatiently and grumbled, “A good one too.” Roran nodded, then
straightened his shoulders and headed into his new future. The house disappeared from
view as they descended the hill.

It was still early when they reached Carvahall, but they found the smithy doors already
open. The air inside was pleasantly warm. Baldor slowly worked two large bellows
attached to the side of a stone forge filled with sparkling coals. Before the forge stood a
black anvil and an iron-bound barrel filled with brine. From a line of neck-high poles
protruding from the walls hung rows of items: giant tongs, pliers, hammers in every
shape and weight, chisels, angles, center punches, files, rasps, lathes, bars of iron and
steel waiting to be shaped, vises, shears, picks, and shovels. Horst and Dempton stood
next to a long table.


Dempton approached with a smile beneath his flamboyant red mustache. “Roran! I’m
glad you came. There’s going to be more work than I can handle with my new
grindstones. Are you ready to go?”

Roran hefted his pack. “Yes. Do we leave soon?”

“I’ve a few things to take care of first, but we’ll be off within the hour.” Eragon shifted
his feet as Dempton turned to him, tugging at the corner of his mustache. “You must be
Eragon. I would offer you a job too, but Roran got the only one. Maybe in a year or two,
eh?”

Eragon smiled uneasily and shook his hand. The man was friendly. Under other
circumstances Eragon would have liked him, but right then, he sourly wished that the
miller had never come to Carvahall. Dempton huffed. “Good, very good.” He returned
his attention to Roran and started to explain how a mill worked.

“They’re ready to go,” interrupted Horst, gesturing at the table where several bundles
rested. “You can take them whenever you want to.” They shook hands, then Horst left the
smithy, beckoning to Eragon on the way out.

Interested, Eragon followed. He found the smith standing in the street with his arms
crossed. Eragon thrust his thumb back toward the miller and asked, “What do you think
of him?”

Horst rumbled, “A good man. He’ll do fine with Roran.” He absently brushed metal
filings off his apron, then put a massive hand on Eragon’s shoulder. “Lad, do you
remember the fight you had with Sloan?”

“If you’re asking about payment for the meat, I haven’t forgotten.”

“No, I trust you, lad. What I wanted to know is if you still have that blue stone.”

Eragon’s heart fluttered.Why does he want to know? Maybe someone saw Saphira!
Struggling not to panic, he said, “I do, but why do you ask?”

“As soon as you return home, get rid of it.” Horst overrode Eragon’s exclamation. “Two
men arrived here yesterday. Strange fellows dressed in black and carrying swords. It
made my skin crawl just to look at them. Last evening they started asking people if a
stone like yours had been found. They’re at it again today.” Eragon blanched. “No one
with any sense said anything. They know trouble when they see it, but I could name a
few people who will talk.”

Dread filled Eragon’s heart. Whoever had sent the stone into the Spine had finally
tracked it down. Or perhaps the Empire had learned of Saphira. He did not know which
would be worse.Think! Think! The egg is gone. It’s impossible for them to find it now.
But if they know what it was, it’ll be obvious what happened. . . . Saphira might be in


danger! It took all of his self-control to retain a casual air. “Thanks for telling me. Do
you know where they are?” He was proud that his voice barely trembled.

“I didn’t warn you because I thought you needed to meet those men! Leave Carvahall. Go
home.”

“All right,” said Eragon to placate the smith, “if you think I should.”

“I do.” Horst’s face softened. “I may be overreacting, but these strangers give me a bad
feeling. It would be better if you stay home until they leave. I’ll try to keep them away
from your farm, though it may not do any good.”

Eragon looked at him gratefully. He wished he could tell him about Saphira. “I’ll leave
now,” he said, and hurried back to Roran. Eragon clasped his cousin’s arm and bade him
farewell.

“Aren’t you going to stay awhile?” Roran asked with surprise.

Eragon almost laughed. For some reason, the question struck him as funny. “There’s
nothing for me to do, and I’m not going to stand around until you go.”

“Well,” said Roran doubtfully, “I guess this is the last time we’ll see each other for a few
months.”

“I’m sure it won’t seem that long,” said Eragon hastily. “Take care and come back soon.”
He hugged Roran, then left. Horst was still in the street. Aware that the smith was
watching, Eragon headed to the outskirts of Carvahall. Once the smithy was out of sight,
he ducked behind a house and sneaked back through the village.

Eragon kept to the shadows as he searched each street, listening for the slightest noise.
His thoughts flashed to his room, where his bow hung; he wished that it was in his hand.
He prowled across Carvahall, avoiding everyone until he heard a sibilant voice from
around a house. Although his ears were keen, he had to strain to hear what was being
said.

“When did this happen?” The words were smooth, like oiled glass, and seemed to worm
their way through the air. Underlying the speech was a strange hiss that made his scalp
prickle.

“About three months ago,” someone else answered. Eragon identified him as Sloan.

Shade’s blood, he’s telling them. . . .He resolved to punch Sloan the next time they met.

A third person spoke. The voice was deep and moist. It conjured up images of creeping
decay, mold, and other things best left untouched. “Are you sure? We would hate to think
you had made a mistake. If that were so, it would be most . . . unpleasant.” Eragon could


imagine only too well what they might do. Would anyone but the Empire dare threaten
people like that? Probably not, but whoever sent the egg might be powerful enough to use
force with impunity.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He had it then. I’m not lying. Plenty of people know about it. Go ask
them.” Sloan sounded shaken. He said something else that Eragon did not catch.

“They have been . . . rather uncooperative.” The words were derisive. There was a pause.
“Your information has been helpful. We will not forget you.” Eragon believed him.

Sloan muttered something, then Eragon heard someone hurrying away. He peered around
the corner to see what was happening. Two tall men stood in the street. Both were
dressed in long black cloaks that were lifted by sheaths poking past their legs. On their
shirts were insignias intricately wrought with silver thread. Hoods shaded their faces, and
their hands were covered by gloves. Their backs were oddly humped, as though their
clothes were stuffed with padding.

Eragon shifted slightly to get a better view. One of the strangers stiffened and grunted
peculiarly to his companion. They both swiveled around and sank into crouches.
Eragon’s breath caught. Mortal fear clenched him. His eyes locked onto their hidden
faces, and a stifling power fell over his mind, keeping him in place. He struggled against
it and screamed to himself,Move! His legs swayed, but to no avail. The strangers stalked
toward him with a smooth, noiseless gait. He knew they could see his face now. They
were almost to the corner, hands grasping at swords. . . .

“Eragon!” He jerked as his name was called. The strangers froze in place and hissed.
Brom hurried toward him from the side, head bare and staff in hand. The strangers were
blocked from the old man’s view. Eragon tried to warn him, but his tongue and arms
would not stir. “Eragon!” cried Brom again. The strangers gave Eragon one last look,
then slipped away between the houses.

Eragon collapsed to the ground, shivering. Sweat beaded on his forehead and made his
palms sticky. The old man offered Eragon a hand and pulled him up with a strong arm.
“You look sick; is all well?”

Eragon gulped and nodded mutely. His eyes flickered around, searching for anything
unusual. “I just got dizzy all of a sudden . . . it’s passed. It was very odd—I don’t know
why it happened.”

“You’ll recover,” said Brom, “but perhaps it would be better if you went home.”

Yes, I have to get home! Have to get there before they do.“I think you’re right. Maybe
I’m getting ill.”

“Then home is the best place for you. It’s a long walk, but I’m sure you will feel better by
the time you arrive. Let me escort you to the road.” Eragon did not protest as Brom took


his arm and led him away at a quick pace. Brom’s staff crunched in the snow as they
passed the houses.

“Why were you looking for me?”

Brom shrugged. “Simple curiosity. I learned you were in town and wondered if you had
remembered the name of that trader.”

Trader? What’s he talking about?Eragon stared blankly; his confusion caught the
attention of Brom’s probing eyes. “No,” he said, and then amended himself, “I’m afraid I
still don’t remember.”

Brom sighed gruffly, as if something had been confirmed, and rubbed his eagle nose.
“Well, then . . . if you do, come tell me. I am most interested in this trader who pretends
to know so much about dragons.” Eragon nodded with a distracted air. They walked in
silence to the road, then Brom said, “Hasten home. I don’t think it would be a good idea
to tarry on the way.” He offered a gnarled hand.

Eragon shook it, but as he let go something in Brom’s hand caught on his mitt and pulled
it off. It fell to the ground. The old man picked it up. “Clumsy of me,” he apologized, and
handed it back. As Eragon took the mitt, Brom’s strong fingers wrapped around his wrist
and twisted sharply. His palm briefly faced upward, revealing the silvery mark. Brom’s
eyes glinted, but he let Eragon yank his hand back and jam it into the mitt.

“Goodbye,” Eragon forced out, perturbed, and hurried down the road. Behind him he
heard Brom whistling a merry tune.

FLIGHT OFDESTINY

Eragon’s mind churned as he sped on his way. He ran as fast as he could, refusing to
stop even when his breath came in great gasps. As he pounded down the cold road, he
cast out with his mind for Saphira, but she was too far away for him to contact. He
thought about what to say to Garrow. There was no choice now; he would have to reveal
Saphira.

He arrived home, panting for air and heart pounding. Garrow stood by the barn with the
horses. Eragon hesitated. Should I talk to him now? He won’t believe me unless Saphira
is here—I’d better find her first.He slipped around the farm and into the forest.Saphira!
he shouted with his thoughts.

I come,was the dim reply. Through the words he sensed her alarm. He waited impatiently,
though it was not long before the sound of her wings filled the air. She landed amid a
gout of smoke.What happened? she queried.


He touched her shoulder and closed his eyes. Calming his mind, he quickly told her what
had occurred. When he mentioned the strangers, Saphira recoiled. She reared and roared
deafeningly, then whipped her tail over his head. He scrambled back in surprise, ducking
as her tail hit a snowdrift. Bloodlust and fear emanated from her in great sickening
waves.Fire! Enemies! Death! Murderers!

What’s wrong?He put all of his strength into the words, but an iron wall surrounded her
mind, shielding her thoughts. She let out another roar and gouged the earth with her
claws, tearing the frozen ground.Stop it! Garrow will hear!

Oaths betrayed, souls killed, eggs shattered! Blood everywhere. Murderers!

Frantic, he blocked out Saphira’s emotions and watched her tail. When it flicked past
him, he dashed to her side and grabbed a spike on her back. Clutching it, he pulled
himself into the small hollow at the base of her neck and held on tightly as she reared
again. “Enough, Saphira!” he bellowed. Her stream of thoughts ceased abruptly. He ran a
hand over her scales. “Everything’s going to be all right.” She crouched and her wings
rushed upward. They hung there for an instant, then drove down as she flung herself into
the sky.

Eragon yelled as the ground dropped away and they rose above the trees. Turbulence
buffeted him, snatching the breath out of his mouth. Saphira ignored his terror and
banked toward the Spine. Underneath, he glimpsed the farm and the Anora River. His
stomach convulsed. He tightened his arms around Saphira’s neck and concentrated on the
scales in front of his nose, trying not to vomit as she continued to climb. When she
leveled off, he gained the courage to glance around.

The air was so cold that frost accumulated on his eyelashes. They had reached the
mountains faster than he thought possible. From the air, the peaks looked like giant razor-
sharp teeth waiting to slash them to ribbons. Saphira wobbled unexpectedly, and Eragon
heaved over her side. He wiped his lips, tasting bile, and buried his head against her neck.

We have to go back,he pleaded.The strangers are coming to the farm.Garrow has to be
warned. Turn around! There was no answer. He reached for her mind, but was blocked
by a barrier of roiling fear and anger. Determined to make her turn around, he grimly
wormed into her mental armor. He pushed at its weak places, undermined the stronger
sections, and fought to make her listen, but to no avail.

Soon mountains surrounded them, forming tremendous white walls broken by granite
cliffs. Blue glaciers sat between the summits like frozen rivers. Long valleys and ravines
opened beneath them. He heard the dismayed screech of birds far below as Saphira
soared into view. He saw a herd of woolly goats bounding from ledge to ledge on a rocky
bluff.


Eragon was battered by swirling gusts from Saphira’s wings, and whenever she moved
her neck, he was tossed from side to side. She seemed tireless. He was afraid she was
going to fly through the night. Finally, as darkness fell, she tilted into a shallow dive.

He looked ahead and saw that they were headed for a small clearing in a valley. Saphira
spiraled down, leisurely drifting over the treetops. She pulled back as the ground neared,
filled her wings with air, and landed on her rear legs. Her powerful muscles rippled as
they absorbed the shock of impact. She dropped to all fours and skipped a step to keep
her balance. Eragon slid off without waiting for her to fold her wings.

As he struck the ground, his knees buckled, and his cheek slammed against the snow. He
gasped as excruciating pain seared through his legs, sending tears to his eyes. His
muscles, cramped from clenching for so long, shook violently. He rolled onto his back,
shivering, and stretched his limbs as best he could. Then he forced himself to look down.
Two large blots darkened his wool pants on the insides of his thighs. He touched the
fabric. It was wet. Alarmed, he peeled off the pants and grimaced. The insides of his legs
were raw and bloody. The skin was gone, rubbed off by Saphira’s hard scales. He
gingerly felt the abrasions and winced. Cold bit into him as he pulled the pants back on,
and he cried out as they scraped against the sensitive wounds. He tried to stand, but his
legs would not support him.

The deepening night obscured his surroundings; the shaded mountains were unfamiliar.
I’m in the Spine, I don’t know where, during the middle of winter, with a crazed dragon,
unable to walk or find shelter. Night is falling. I have to get back to the farm tomorrow.
And the only way to do that is to fly, which I can’t endure anymore.He took a deep
breath.Oh, I wish Saphira could breathe fire. He turned his head and saw her next to him,
crouched low to the ground. He put a hand on her side and found it trembling. The barrier
in her mind was gone. Without it, her fear scorched through him. He clamped down on it
and slowly soothed her with gentle images.Why do the strangers frighten you?

Murderers, she hissed.

Garrow is in danger and you kidnap me on this ridiculous journey! Are you unable to
protect me?She growled deeply and snapped her jaws.Ah, but if you think you can, why
run?

Death is a poison.

He leaned on one elbow and stifled his frustration.Saphira, look where we are! The sun is
down, and your flight has stripped my legs as easily as I would scale a fish. Is that what
you wanted?

No.

Then why did you do it?he demanded. Through his link with Saphira, he felt her regret for
his pain, but not for her actions. She looked away and refused to answer. The icy


temperature deadened Eragon’s legs; although it lessened the pain, he knew that his
condition was not good. He changed tack.I’m going to freeze unless you make me a
shelter or hollow so I can stay warm. Even a pile of pine needles and branches would do.

She seemed relieved that he had stopped interrogating her.There is no need. I will curl
around you and cover you with my wings—the fire inside me will stay the cold.

Eragon let his head thump back on the ground.Fine, but scrape the snow off the ground.
It’ll be more comfortable. In answer, Saphira razed a drift with her tail, clearing it with
one powerful stroke. She swept over the site again to remove the last few inches of
hardened snow. He eyed the exposed dirt with distaste.I can’t walk over there. You’ll
have to help me to it. Her head, larger than his torso, swung over him and came to rest by
his side. He stared at her large, sapphire-colored eyes and wrapped his hands around one
of her ivory spikes. She lifted her head and slowly dragged him to the bare spot.Gently,
gently. Stars danced in his eyes as he slid over a rock, but he managed to hold on. After
he let go, Saphira rolled on her side, exposing her warm belly. He huddled against the
smooth scales of her underside. Her right wing extended over him and enclosed him in
complete darkness, forming a living tent. Almost immediately the air began to lose its
frigidity.

He pulled his arms inside his coat and tied the empty sleeves around his neck. For the
first time he noticed that hunger gnawed at his stomach. But it did not distract him from
his main worry: Could he get back to the farm before the strangers did? And if not, what
would happen?Even if I can force myself to ride Saphira again, it’ll be at least
midafternoon before we get back. The strangers could be there long before that. He
closed his eyes and felt a single tear slide down his face.What have I done?

THEDOOM OFINNOCENCE

When Eragon opened his eyes in the morning, he thought the sky had fallen. An
unbroken plane of blue stretched over his head and slanted to the ground. Still half
asleep, he reached out tentatively and felt a thin membrane under his fingers. It took him
a long minute to realize what he was staring at. He bent his neck slightly and glared at the
scaly haunch his head rested on. Slowly he pushed his legs out from his fetal curl, scabs
cracking. The pain had subsided some from yesterday, but he shrank from the thought of
walking. Burning hunger reminded him of his missed meals. He summoned the energy to
move and pounded weakly on Saphira’s side. “Hey! Wake up!” he yelled.

She stirred and lifted her wing to admit a torrent of sunshine. He squinted as the snow
momentarily blinded him. Beside him Saphira stretched like a cat and yawned, flashing
rows of white teeth. When Eragon’s eyes adjusted, he examined where they were.
Imposing and unfamiliar mountains surrounded them, casting deep shadows on the
clearing. Off to one side, he saw a trail cut through the snow and into the forest, where he
could hear the muffled gurgling of a creek.


Groaning, he stood and swayed, then stiffly hobbled to a tree. He grabbed one of its
branches and threw his weight against it. It held, then broke with a loud crack. He ripped
off the twigs, fit one end of the branch under his arm, and planted the other firmly in the
ground. With the help of his improvised crutch, he limped to the iced-over creek. He
broke through the hard shell and cupped the clear, bitter water. Sated, he returned to the
clearing. As he emerged from the trees, he finally recognized the mountains and the lay
of the land.

This was where, amid deafening sound, Saphira’s egg had first appeared. He sagged
against a rough trunk. There could be no mistake, for now he saw the gray trees that had
been stripped of their needles in the explosion.How did Saphira know where this was?
She was still in the egg. My memories must have given her enough information to find it.

He shook his head in silent astonishment.

Saphira was waiting patiently for him.Will you take me home? he asked her. She cocked
her head.I know you don’t want to, but you must. Both of us carry an obligation to
Garrow. He has cared for me and, through me, you. Would you ignore that debt? What
will be said of us in years to come if we don’t return—that we hid like cowards while my
uncle was in danger? I can hear it now, the story of the Rider and his craven dragon! If
there will be a fight, let’s face it and not shy away. You are a dragon! Even a Shade
would run from you! Yet you crouch in the mountains like a frightened rabbit.

Eragon meant to anger her, and he succeeded. A growl rippled in her throat as her head
jabbed within a few inches of his face. She bared her fangs and glared at him, smoke
trailing from her nostrils. He hoped that he had not gone too far. Her thoughts reached
him, red with anger.Blood will meet blood. I will fight. Our wyrds—our fates—bind us,
but try me not. I will take you because of debt owed, but into foolishness we fly.

“Foolishness or not,” he said into the air, “there is no choice—we must go.” He ripped
his shirt in half and stuffed a piece into each side of his pants. Gingerly, he hoisted
himself onto Saphira and took a tight hold on her neck.This time, he told her,fly lower
and faster. Time is of the essence.

Don’t let go,she cautioned, then surged into the sky. They rose above the forest and
leveled out immediately, barely staying above the branches. Eragon’s stomach lurched;
he was glad it was empty.

Faster, faster,he urged. She said nothing, but the beat of her wings increased. He screwed
his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders. He had hoped that the extra padding of his shirt
would protect him, but every movement sent pangs through his legs. Soon lines of hot
blood trickled down his calves. Concern emanated from Saphira. She went even faster
now, her wings straining. The land sped past, as if it were being pulled out from under
them. Eragon imagined that to someone on the ground, they were just a blur.

By early afternoon, Palancar Valley lay before them. Clouds obscured his vision to the
south; Carvahall was to the north. Saphira glided down while Eragon searched for the


farm. When he spotted it, fear jolted him. A black plume with orange flames dancing at
its base rose from the farm.

Saphira!He pointed.Get me down there. Now!

She locked her wings and tilted into a steep dive, hurtling groundward at a frightening
rate. Then she altered her dive slightly so they sped toward the forest. He yelled over the
screaming air, “Land in the fields!” He held on tighter as they plummeted. Saphira waited
until they were only a hundred feet off the ground before driving her wings downward in
several powerful strokes. She landed heavily, breaking his grip. He crashed to the ground,
then staggered upright, gasping for breath.

The house had been blasted apart. Timbers and boards that had been walls and roof were
strewn across a wide area. The wood was pulverized, as if a giant hammer had smashed
it. Sooty shingles lay everywhere. A few twisted metal plates were all that remained of
the stove. The snow was perforated with smashed white crockery and chunks of bricks
from the chimney. Thick, oily smoke billowed from the barn, which burned fiercely. The
farm animals were gone, either killed or frightened away.

“Uncle!” Eragon ran to the wreckage, hunting through the destroyed rooms for Garrow.
There was no sign of him. “Uncle!” Eragon cried again. Saphira walked around the house
and came to his side.

Sorrow breeds here,she said.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t run away with me!”

You would not be alive if we had stayed.

“Look at this!” he screamed. “We could’ve warned Garrow! It’s your fault he didn’t get
away!” He slammed his fist against a pole, splitting the skin on his knuckles. Blood
dripped down his fingers as he stalked out of the house. He stumbled to the path that led
to the road and bent down to examine the snow. Several tracks were before him, but his
vision was blurry and he could barely see.Am I going blind? he wondered. With a
shaking hand, he touched his cheeks and found them wet.

A shadow fell on him as Saphira loomed overhead, sheltering him with her wings.Take
comfort; all may not be lost. He looked up at her, searching for hope.Examine the trail;
my eyes see only two sets of prints. Garrow could not have been taken from here.

He focused on the trampled snow. The faint imprints of two pairs of leather boots headed
toward the house. On top of those were traces of the same two sets of boots leaving. And
whoever had made the departing tracks had been carrying the same weight as when they
arrived.You’re right, Garrow has to be here! He leapt to his feet and hurried back to the
house.


I will search around the buildings and in the forest,said Saphira.

Eragon scrambled into the remains of the kitchen and frantically started digging through
a pile of rubble. Pieces of debris that he could not have moved normally now seemed to
shift on their own accord. A cupboard, mostly intact, stymied him for a second, then he
heaved and sent it flying. As he pulled on a board, something rattled behind him. He spun
around, ready for an attack.

A hand extended from under a section of collapsed roof. It moved weakly, and he
grasped it with a cry. “Uncle, can you hear me?” There was no response. Eragon tore at
pieces of wood, heedless of the splinters that pierced his hands. He quickly exposed an
arm and shoulder, but was barred by a heavy beam. He threw his shoulder at it and
shoved with every fiber of his being, but it defied his efforts. “Saphira! I need you!”

She came immediately. Wood cracked under her feet as she crawled over the ruined
walls. Without a word she nosed past him and set her side against the beam. Her claws
sank into what was left of the floor; her muscles strained. With a grating sound, the beam
lifted, and Eragon rushed under it. Garrow lay on his stomach, his clothes mostly torn off.
Eragon pulled him out of the rubble. As soon as they were clear, Saphira released the
beam, leaving it to crash to the floor.

Eragon dragged Garrow out of the destroyed house and eased him to the ground.
Dismayed, he touched his uncle gently. His skin was gray, lifeless, and dry, as if a fever
had burned off any sweat. His lip was split, and there was a long scrape on his
cheekbone, but that was not the worst. Deep, ragged burns covered most of his body.
They were chalky white and oozed clear liquid. A cloying, sickening smell hung over
him—the odor of rotting fruit. His breath came in short jerks, each one sounding like a
death rattle.

Murderers,hissed Saphira.

Don’t say that. He can still be saved! We have to get him to Gertrude. I can’t carry him
to Carvahall, though.

Saphira presented an image of Garrow hanging under her while she flew.

Can you lift both of us?

I must.

Eragon dug through the rubble until he found a board and leather thongs. He had Saphira
pierce a hole with a claw at each of the board’s corners, then he looped a piece of leather
through each hole and tied them to her forelegs. After checking to make sure the knots
were secure, he rolled Garrow onto the board and lashed him down. As he did, a scrap of
black cloth fell from his uncle’s hand. It matched the strangers’ clothing. He angrily


stuffed it in a pocket, mounted Saphira, and closed his eyes as his body settled into a
steady throb of pain.Now!

She leapt up, hind legs digging into the ground. Her wings clawed at the air as she slowly
climbed. Tendons strained and popped as she battled gravity. For a long, painful second,
nothing happened, but then she lunged forward powerfully and they rose higher. Once
they were over the forest, Eragon told her,Follow the road. It’ll give you enough room if
you have to land.

I might be seen.

It doesn’t matter anymore!She argued no further as she veered to the road and headed for
Carvahall. Garrow swung wildly underneath them; only the slender leather cords kept
him from falling.

The extra weight slowed Saphira. Before long her head sagged, and there was froth at her
mouth. She struggled to continue, yet they were almost a league from Carvahall when she
locked her wings and sank toward the road.

Her hind feet touched with a shower of snow. Eragon tumbled off her, landing heavily on
his side to avoid hurting his legs. He struggled to his feet and worked to untie the leather
from Saphira’s legs. Her thick panting filled the air.Find a safe place to rest, he said.I
don’t know how long I’ll be gone, so you’re going to have to take care of yourself for a
while.

I will wait,she said.

He gritted his teeth and began to drag Garrow down the road. The first few steps sent an
explosion of agony through him. “I can’t do this!” he howled at the sky, then took a few
more steps. His mouth locked into a snarl. He stared at the ground between his feet as he
forced himself to hold a steady pace. It was a fight against his unruly body—a fight he
refused to lose. The minutes crawled by at an excruciating rate. Each yard he covered
seemed many times that. With desperation he wondered if Carvahall still existed or if the
strangers had burnt it down, too. After a time, through a haze of pain, he heard shouting
and looked up.

Brom was running toward him—eyes large, hair awry, and one side of his head caked
with dried blood. He waved his arms wildly before dropping his staff and grabbing
Eragon’s shoulders, saying something in a loud voice. Eragon blinked
uncomprehendingly. Without warning, the ground rushed up to meet him. He tasted
blood, then blacked out.

DEATHWATCH


Dreams roiled in Eragon’s mind, breeding and living by their own laws.He watched as
a group of people on proud horses approached a lonely river. Many had silver hair and
carried tall lances. A strange, fair ship waited for them, shining under a bright moon.
The figures slowly boarded the vessel; two of them, taller than the rest, walked arm in
arm. Their faces were obscured by cowls, but he could tell that one was a woman. They
stood on the deck of the ship and faced the shore. A man stood alone on the pebble beach,
the only one who had not boarded the ship. He threw back his head and let out a long,
aching cry. As it faded, the ship glided down the river, without a breeze or oars, out into
the flat, empty land. The vision clouded, but just before it disappeared, Eragon glimpsed
two dragons in the sky.

Eragon was first aware of the creaking: back and forth, back and forth. The persistent
sound made him open his eyes and stare at the underside of a thatched roof. A rough
blanket was draped over him, concealing his nakedness. Someone had bandaged his legs
and tied a clean rag around his knuckles.

He was in a single-room hut. A mortar and pestle sat on a table with bowls and plants.
Rows of dried herbs hung from the walls and suffused the air with strong, earthy aromas.
Flames writhed inside a fireplace, before which sat a rotund woman in a wicker rocking
chair—the town healer, Gertrude. Her head lolled, eyes closed. A pair of knitting needles
and a ball of wool thread rested in her lap.

Though Eragon felt drained of willpower, he made himself sit up. That helped to clear his
mind. He sifted through his memories of the last two days. His first thought was of
Garrow, and his second was of Saphira.I hope she’s in a safe place. He tried to contact
her but could not. Wherever she was, it was far from Carvahall.At least Brom got me to
Carvahall. I wonder what happened to him? There was all that blood.

Gertrude stirred and opened her sparkling eyes. “Oh,” she said. “You’re awake. Good!”
Her voice was rich and warm. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough. Where’s Garrow?”

Gertrude dragged the chair close to the bed. “Over at Horst’s. There wasn’t enough room
to keep both of you here. And let me tell you, it’s kept me on my toes, having to run back
and forth, checking to see if the two of you were all right.”

Eragon swallowed his worries and asked, “How is he?”

There was a long delay as she examined her hands. “Not good. He has a fever that refuses
to break, and his injuries aren’t healing.”

“I have to see him.” He tried to get up.


“Not until you eat,” she said sharply, pushing him down. “I didn’t spend all this time
sitting by your side so you can get back up and hurt yourself. Half the skin on your legs
was torn off, and your fever broke only last night. Don’t worry yourself about Garrow.
He’ll be fine. He’s a tough man.” Gertrude hung a kettle over the fire, then began
chopping parsnips for soup.

“How long have I been here?”

“Two full days.”

Two days!That meant his last meal had been four mornings ago! Just thinking about it
made Eragon feel weak.Saphira’s been on her own this entire time; I hope she’s all right.

“The whole town wants to know what happened. They sent men down to your farm and
found it destroyed.” Eragon nodded; he had expected that. “Your barn was burned down.
. . . Is that how Garrow was injured?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” said Eragon. “I wasn’t there when it happened.”

“Well, no matter. I’m sure it’ll all get untangled.” Gertrude resumed knitting while the
soup cooked. “That’s quite a scar on your palm.”

He reflexively clenched his hand. “Yes.”

“How did you get it?”

Several possible answers came to mind. He chose the simplest one. “I’ve had it ever since
I can remember. I never asked Garrow where it came from.”

“Mmm.” The silence remained unbroken until the soup reached a rolling boil. Gertrude
poured it in a bowl and handed it to Eragon with a spoon. He accepted it gratefully and
took a cautious sip. It was delicious.

When he finished, he asked, “Can I visit Garrow now?”

Gertrude sighed. “You’re a determined one, aren’t you? Well, if you really want to, I
won’t stop you. Put on your clothes and we’ll go.”

She turned her back as he struggled into his pants, wincing as they dragged over the
bandages, and then slipped on his shirt. Gertrude helped him stand. His legs were weak,
but they did not pain him like before.

“Take a few steps,” she commanded, then dryly observed, “At least you won’t have to
crawl there.”


Outside, a blustery wind blew smoke from the adjacent buildings into their faces. Storm
clouds hid the Spine and covered the valley while a curtain of snow advanced toward the
village, obscuring the foothills. Eragon leaned heavily on Gertrude as they made their
way through Carvahall.

Horst had built his two-story house on a hill so he could enjoy a view of the mountains.
He had lavished all of his skill on it. The shale roof shadowed a railed balcony that
extended from a tall window on the second floor. Each water spout was a snarling
gargoyle, and every window and door was framed by carvings of serpents, harts, ravens,
and knotted vines.

The door was opened by Elain, Horst’s wife, a small, willowy woman with refined
features and silky blond hair pinned into a bun. Her dress was demure and neat, and her
movements graceful. “Please, come in,” she said softly. They stepped over the threshold
into a large well-lit room. A staircase with a polished balustrade curved down to the
floor. The walls were the color of honey. Elain gave Eragon a sad smile, but addressed
Gertrude. “I was just about to send for you. He isn’t doing well. You should see him right
away.”

“Elain, you’ll have to help Eragon up the stairs,” Gertrude said, then hurried up them two
at a time.

“It’s okay, I can do it myself.”

“Are you sure?” asked Elain. He nodded, but she looked doubtful. “Well . . . as soon as
you’re done come visit me in the kitchen. I have a fresh-baked pie you might enjoy.” As
soon as she left, he sagged against the wall, welcoming the support. Then he started up
the stairs, one painful step at a time. When he reached the top, he looked down a long
hallway dotted with doors. The last one was open slightly. Taking a breath, he lurched
toward it.

Katrina stood by a fireplace, boiling rags. She looked up, murmured a condolence, and
then returned to her work. Gertrude stood beside her, grinding herbs for a poultice. A
bucket by her feet held snow melting into ice water.

Garrow lay on a bed piled high with blankets. Sweat covered his brow, and his eyeballs
flickered blindly under their lids. The skin on his face was shrunken like a cadaver’s. He
was still, save for subtle tremors from his shallow breathing. Eragon touched his uncle’s
forehead with a feeling of unreality. It burned against his hand. He apprehensively lifted
the edge of the blankets and saw that Garrow’s many wounds were bound with strips of
cloth. Where the bandages were being changed, the burns were exposed to the air. They
had not begun to heal. Eragon looked at Gertrude with hopeless eyes. “Can’t you do
anything about these?”

She pressed a rag into the bucket of ice water, then draped the cool cloth over Garrow’s
head. “I’ve tried everything: salves, poultices, tinctures, but nothing works. If the wounds


closed, he would have a better chance. Still, things may turn for the better. He’s hardy
and strong.”

Eragon moved to a corner and sank to the floor.This isn’t the way things are supposed to
be! Silence swallowed his thoughts. He stared blankly at the bed. After a while he noticed
Katrina kneeling beside him. She put an arm around him. When he did not respond, she
diffidently left.

Sometime later the door opened and Horst came in. He talked to Gertrude in a low voice,
then approached Eragon. “Come on. You need to get out of here.” Before Eragon could
protest, Horst dragged him to his feet and shepherded him out the door.

“I want to stay,” he complained.

“You need a break and fresh air. Don’t worry, you can go back soon enough,” consoled
Horst.

Eragon grudgingly let the smith help him downstairs into the kitchen. Heady smells from
half a dozen dishes—rich with spices and herbs—filled the air. Albriech and Baldor were
there, talking with their mother as she kneaded bread. The brothers fell silent as they saw
Eragon, but he had heard enough to know that they were discussing Garrow.

“Here, sit down,” said Horst, offering a chair.

Eragon sank into it gratefully. “Thank you.” His hands were shaking slightly, so he
clasped them in his lap. A plate, piled high with food, was set before him.

“You don’t have to eat,” said Elain, “but it’s there if you want.” She returned to her
cooking as he picked up a fork. He could barely swallow a few bites.

“How do you feel?” asked Horst.

“Terrible.”

The smith waited a moment. “I know this isn’t the best time, but we need to know . . .
what happened?”

“I don’t really remember.”

“Eragon,” said Horst, leaning forward, “I was one of the people who went out to your
farm. Your house didn’t just fall apart—something tore it to pieces. Surrounding it were
tracks of a gigantic beast I’ve never seen nor heard of before. Others saw them too. Now,
if there’s a Shade or a monster roaming around, we have to know. You’re the only one
who can tell us.”


Eragon knew he had to lie. “When I left Carvahall . . . ,” he counted up the time, “four
days ago, there were . . . strangers in town asking about a stone like the one I found.” He
gestured at Horst. “You talked to me about them, and because of that, I hurried home.”
All eyes were upon him. He licked his lips. “Nothing . . . nothing happened that night.
The next morning I finished my chores and went walking in the forest. Before long I
heard an explosion and saw smoke above the trees. I rushed back as fast as I could, but
whoever did it was already gone. I dug through the wreckage and . . . found Garrow.”

“So then you put him on the plank and dragged him back?” asked Albriech.

“Yes,” said Eragon, “but before I left, I looked at the path to the road. There were two
pairs of tracks on it, both of them men’s.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the scrap
of black fabric. “This was clenched in Garrow’s hand. I think it matches what those
strangers were wearing.” He set it on the table.

“It does,” said Horst. He looked both thoughtful and angry. “And what of your legs? How
were they injured?”

“I’m not sure,” said Eragon, shaking his head. “I think it happened when I dug Garrow
out, but I don’t know. It wasn’t until the blood started dripping down my legs that I
noticed it.”

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Elain.

“We should pursue those men,” stated Albriech hotly. “They can’t get away with this!
With a pair of horses we could catch them tomorrow and bring them back here.”

“Put that foolishness out of your head,” said Horst. “They could probably pick you up
like a baby and throw you in a tree. Remember what happened to the house? We don’t
want to get in the way of those people. Besides, they have what they want now.” He
looked at Eragon. “They did take the stone, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t in the house.”

“Then there’s no reason for them to return now that they have it.” He gave Eragon a
piercing look. “You didn’t mention anything about those strange tracks. Do you know
where they came from?”

Eragon shook his head. “I didn’t see them.”

Baldor abruptly spoke. “I don’t like this. Too much of this rings of wizardry. Who are
those men? Are they Shades? Why did they want the stone, and how could they have
destroyed the house except with dark powers? You may be right, Father, the stone might
be all they wanted, but I think we will see them again.”

Silence followed his words.


Something had been overlooked, though Eragon was not sure what. Then it struck him.
With a sinking heart, he voiced his suspicion. “Roran doesn’t know, does he?”How could
I have forgotten him?

Horst shook his head. “He and Dempton left a little while after you. Unless they ran into
some difficulty on the road, they’ve been in Therinsford for a couple of days now. We
were going to send a message, but the weather was too cold yesterday and the day
before.”

“Baldor and I were about to leave when you woke up,” offered Albriech.

Horst ran a hand through his beard. “Go on, both of you. I’ll help you saddle the horses.”

Baldor turned to Eragon. “I’ll break it to him gently,” he promised, then followed Horst
and Albriech out of the kitchen.

Eragon remained at the table, his eyes focused on a knot in the wood. Every excruciating
detail was clear to him: the twisting grain, an asymmetrical bump, three little ridges with
a fleck of color. The knot was filled with endless detail; the closer he looked, the more he
saw. He searched for answers in it, but if there were any, they eluded him.

A faint call broke through his pounding thoughts. It sounded like yelling from outside. He
ignored it.Let someone else deal with it. Several minutes later he heard it again, louder
than before. Angrily, he blocked it out.Why can’t they be quiet? Garrow’s resting. He
glanced at Elain, but she did not seem to be bothered by the noise.

ERAGON!The roar was so strong he almost fell out of the chair. He peered around in
alarm, but nothing had changed. He suddenly realized that the shouts had been inside his
head.

Saphira?he asked anxiously.

There was a pause.Yes, stone ears.

Relief seeped into him.Where are you?

She sent him an image of a small clump of trees.I tried to contact you many times, but
you were beyond reach.

I was sick . . . but I’m better now. Why couldn’t I sense you earlier?

After two nights of waiting, hunger bested me. I had to hunt.

Did you catch anything?


A young buck. He was wise enough to guard against the predators of land, but not those
of sky. When I first caught him in my jaws, he kicked vigorously and tried to escape. I
was stronger, though, and when defeat became unavoidable, he gave up and died. Does
Garrow also fight the inevitable?

I don’t know.He told her the particulars, then said,It’ll be a long time, if ever, before we
can go home. I won’t be able to see you for at least a couple of days. You might as well
make yourself comfortable.

Unhappily, she said,I will do as you say. But do not take too long.

They parted reluctantly. He looked out a window and was surprised to see that the sun
had set. Feeling very tired, he limped to Elain, who was wrapping meat pies with oilcloth.
“I’m going back to Gertrude’s house to sleep,” he said.

She finished with the packages and asked, “Why don’t you stay with us? You’ll be closer
to your uncle, and Gertrude can have her bed back.”

“Do you have enough room?” he asked, wavering.

“Of course.” She wiped her hands. “Come with me; I’ll get everything ready.” She
escorted him upstairs to an empty room. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you need
anything else?” she asked. He shook his head. “In that case, I’ll be downstairs. Call me if
you need help.” He listened as she descended the stairs. Then he opened the door and
slipped down the hallway to Garrow’s room. Gertrude gave him a small smile over her
darting knitting needles.

“How is he?” whispered Eragon.

Her voice rasped with fatigue. “He’s weak, but the fever’s gone down a little and some of
the burns look better. We’ll have to wait and see, but this could mean he’ll recover.”

That lightened Eragon’s mood, and he returned to his room. The darkness seemed
unfriendly as he huddled under the blankets. Eventually he fell asleep, healing the
wounds his body and soul had suffered.

THEMADNESS OFLIFE

It was dark when Eragon jolted upright in bed, breathing hard. The room was chilly;
goose bumps formed on his arms and shoulders. It was a few hours before dawn—the
time when nothing moves and life waits for the first warm touches of sunlight.

His heart pounded as a terrible premonition gripped him. It felt like a shroud lay over the
world, and its darkest corner was over his room. He quietly got out of bed and dressed.


With apprehension he hurried down the hallway. Alarm shot through him when he saw
the door to Garrow’s room open and people clustered inside.

Garrow lay peacefully on the bed. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair had been
combed back, and his face was calm. He might have been sleeping if not for the silver
amulet clasped around his neck and the sprig of dried hemlock on his chest, the last gifts
from the living to the dead.

Katrina stood next to the bed, face pale and eyes downcast. He heard her whisper, “I had
hoped to call himFather one day. . . .”

Call him Father,he thought bitterly,a right even I don’t have. He felt like a ghost, drained
of all vitality. Everything was insubstantial except for Garrow’s face. Tears flooded
Eragon’s cheeks. He stood there, shoulders shaking, but did not cry out. Mother, aunt,
uncle—he had lost them all. The weight of his grief was crushing, a monstrous force that
left him tottering. Someone led him back to his room, uttering consolations.

He fell on the bed, wrapped his arms around his head, and sobbed convulsively. He felt
Saphira contact him, but he pushed her aside and let himself be swept away by sorrow.
He could not accept that Garrow was gone. If he did, what was left to believe in? Only a
merciless, uncaring world that snuffed lives like candles before a wind. Frustrated and
terrified, he turned his tear-dampened face toward the heavens and shouted, “What god
would do this? Show yourself!” He heard people running to his room, but no answer
came from above. “He didn’t deserve this!”

Comforting hands touched him, and he was aware of Elain sitting next to him. She held
him as he cried, and eventually, exhausted, he slipped unwillingly into sleep.

ARIDER’SBLADE

Anguish enveloped Eragon as he awoke. Though he kept his eyes closed, they could not
stop a fresh flow of tears. He searched for some idea or hope to help him keep his sanity.I
can’t live with this, he moaned.

Then don’t.Saphira’s words reverberated in his head.

How? Garrow is gone forever! And in time, I must meet the same fate. Love, family,
accomplishments—they are all torn away, leaving nothing. What is the worth of anything
we do?

The worth is in the act. Your worth halts when you surrender the will to change and
experience life. But options are before you; choose one and dedicate yourself to it. The
deeds will give you new hope and purpose.

But what can I do?


The only true guide is your heart. Nothing less than its supreme desire can help you.

She left him to ponder her statements. Eragon examined his emotions. It surprised him
that, more than grief, he found a searing anger.What do you want me to do . . . pursue the
strangers?

Yes.

Her frank answer confused him. He took a deep, trembling breath.Why?

Remember what you said in the Spine? How you reminded me of my duty as dragon, and
I returned with you despite the urging of my instinct? So, too, must you control yourself. I
thought long and deep the past few days, and I realized what it means to be dragon and
Rider: It is our destiny to attempt the impossible, to accomplish great deeds regardless of
fear. It is our responsibility to the future.

I don’t care what you say; those aren’t reasons to leave!cried Eragon.

Then here are others. My tracks have been seen, and people are alert to my presence.
Eventually I will be exposed. Besides, there is nothing here for you. No farm, no family,
and—

Roran’s not dead!he said vehemently.

But if you stay, you’ll have to explain what really happened. He has a right to know how
and why his father died. What might he do once he knows of me?

Saphira’s arguments whirled around in Eragon’s head, but he shrank from the idea of
forsaking Palancar Valley; it was his home. Yet the thought of enacting vengeance on the
strangers was fiercely comforting.Am I strong enough for this?

You have me.

Doubt besieged him. It would be such a wild, desperate thing to do. Contempt for his
indecision rose, and a harsh smile danced on his lips. Saphira was right. Nothing mattered
anymore except the act itself.The doing is the thing. And what would give him more
satisfaction than hunting down the strangers? A terrible energy and strength began to
grow in him. It grabbed his emotions and forged them into a solid bar of anger with one
word stamped on it: revenge. His head pounded as he said with conviction,I will do it.

He severed the contact with Saphira and rolled out of bed, his body tense like a coiled
spring. It was still early morning; he had only slept a few hours.Nothing is more
dangerous than an enemy with nothing to lose, he thought.Which is what I have become.

Yesterday he had had difficulty walking upright, but now he moved confidently, held in
place by his iron will. The pain his body sent him was defied and ignored.


As he crept out of the house, he heard the murmur of two people talking. Curious, he
stopped and listened. Elain was saying in her gentle voice, “. . . place to stay. We have
room.” Horst answered inaudibly in his bass rumble. “Yes, the poor boy,” replied Elain.

This time Eragon could hear Horst’s response. “Maybe . . .” There was a long pause.
“I’ve been thinking about what Eragon said, and I’m not sure he told us everything.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elain. There was concern in her voice.

“When we started for their farm, the road was scraped smooth by the board he dragged
Garrow on. Then we reached a place where the snow was all trampled and churned up.
His footprints and signs of the board stopped there, but we also saw the same giant tracks
from the farm. And what about his legs? I can’t believe he didn’t notice losing that much
skin. I didn’t want to push him for answers earlier, but now I think I will.”

“Maybe what he saw scared him so much that he doesn’t want to talk about it,” suggested
Elain. “You saw how distraught he was.”

“That still doesn’t explain how he managed to get Garrow nearly all the way here without
leaving any tracks.”

Saphira was right,thought Eragon.It’s time to leave.Too many questions from too many
people.Sooner or later they’ll find the answers. He continued through the house, tensing
whenever the floor creaked.

The streets were clear; few people were up at this time of day. He stopped for a minute
and forced himself to focus.I don’t need a horse. Saphira will be my steed, but she needs
a saddle. She can hunt for both of us, so I don’t have to worry about food—though I
should get some anyway. Whatever else I need I can find buried in our house.

He went to Gedric’s tanning vats on the outskirts of Carvahall. The vile smell made him
cringe, but he kept moving, heading for a shack set into the side of a hill where the cured
hides were stored. He cut down three large ox hides from the rows of skins hanging from
the ceiling. The thievery made him feel guilty, but he reasoned,It’s not really stealing. I’ll
pay Gedric back someday, along with Horst. He rolled up the thick leather and took it to
a stand of trees away from the village. He wedged the hides between the branches of a
tree, then returned to Carvahall.

Now for food.He went to the tavern, intending to get it there, but then smiled tightly and
reversed direction. If he was going to steal, it might as well be from Sloan. He sneaked up
to the butcher’s house. The front door was barred whenever Sloan was not there, but the
side door was secured with only a thin chain, which he broke easily. The rooms inside
were dark. He fumbled blindly until his hands came upon hard piles of meat wrapped in
cloth. He stuffed as many of them as he could under his shirt, then hurried back to the
street and furtively closed the door.


A woman shouted his name nearby. He clasped the bottom of his shirt to keep the meat
from falling out and ducked behind a corner. He shivered as Horst walked between two
houses not ten feet away.

Eragon ran as soon as Horst was out of sight. His legs burned as he pounded down an
alley and back to the trees. He slipped between the tree trunks, then turned to see if he
was being pursued. No one was there. Relieved, he let out his breath and reached into the
tree for the leather. It was gone.

“Going somewhere?”

Eragon whirled around. Brom scowled angrily at him, an ugly wound on the side of his
head. A short sword hung at his belt in a brown sheath. The hides were in his hands.

Eragon’s eyes narrowed in irritation. How had the old man managed to sneak up on him?
Everything had been so quiet, he would have sworn that no one was around. “Give them
back,” he snapped.

“Why? So you can run off before Garrow is even buried?” The accusation was sharp.

“It’s none of your business!” he barked, temper flashing. “Why did you follow me?”

“I didn’t,” grunted Brom. “I’ve been waiting for you here. Now where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” Eragon lunged for the skins and grabbed them from Brom’s hands. Brom did
nothing to stop him.

“I hope you have enough meat to feed your dragon.”

Eragon froze. “What are you talking about?”

Brom crossed his arms. “Don’t fool with me. I know where that mark on your hand, the
gedwëy ignasia, theshining palm, comes from: you have touched a dragon hatchling. I
know why you came to me with those questions, and I know that once more the Riders
live.”

Eragon dropped the leather and meat.It’s finally happened . . . I have to get away! I can’t
run faster than him with my injured legs, but if . . . Saphira! he called.

For a few agonizing seconds she did not answer, but then,Yes.

We’ve been discovered! I need you!He sent her a picture of where he was, and she took
off immediately. Now he just had to stall Brom. “How did you find out?” he asked in a
hollow voice.


Brom stared into the distance and moved his lips soundlessly as if he were talking to
someone else. Then he said, “There were clues and hints everywhere; I had only to pay
attention. Anyone with the right knowledge could have done the same. Tell me, how is
your dragon?”

“She,” said Eragon, “is fine. We weren’t at the farm when the strangers came.”

“Ah, your legs. You were flying?”

How did Brom figure that out? What if the strangers coerced him into doing this? Maybe
they want him to discover where I’m going so they can ambush us. And where is
Saphira?He reached out with his mind and found her circling far overhead.Come!

No, I will watch for a time.
Why!
Because of the slaughter at Dorú Areaba.
What?


Brom leaned against a tree with a slight smile. “I have talked with her, and she has agreed
to stay above us until we settle our differences. As you can see, you really don’t have any
choice but to answer my questions. Now tell me, where are you going?”

Bewildered, Eragon put a hand to his temple.How could Brom speak to Saphira? The
back of his head throbbed and ideas whirled through his mind, but he kept reaching the
same conclusion: he had to tell the old man something. He said, “I was going to find a
safe place to stay while I heal.”

“And after that?”

The question could not be ignored. The throbbing in his head grew worse. It was
impossible to think; nothing seemed clear anymore. All he wanted to do was tell someone
about the events of the past few months. It tore at him that his secret had caused Garrow’s
death. He gave up and said tremulously, “I was going to hunt down the strangers and kill
them.”

“A mighty task for one so young,” Brom said in a normal tone, as if Eragon had proposed
the most obvious and suitable thing to do. “Certainly a worthy endeavor and one you are
fit to carry out, yet it strikes me that help would not be unwelcome.” He reached behind a
bush and pulled out a large pack. His tone became gruff. “Anyway, I’m not going to stay
behind while some stripling gets to run around with a dragon.”

Is he really offering help, or is it a trap?Eragon was afraid of what his mysterious
enemies could do.But Brom convinced Saphira to trust him, and they’ve talked through


the mind touch.If she isn’t worried . . . He decided to put his suspicions aside for the
present. “I don’t need help,” said Eragon, then grudgingly added, “but you can come.”

“Then we had best be going,” said Brom. His face blanked for a moment. “I think you’ll
find that your dragon will listen to you again.”

Saphira?asked Eragon.

Yes.

He resisted the urge to question her.Will you meet us at the farm?

Yes. So you reached an agreement?

I guess so.She broke contact and soared away. He glanced at Carvahall and saw people
running from house to house. “I think they’re looking for me.”

Brom raised an eyebrow. “Probably. Shall we go?”

Eragon hesitated. “I’d like to leave a message for Roran. It doesn’t seem right to run off
without telling him why.”

“It’s been taken care of,” assured Brom. “I left a letter for him with Gertrude, explaining
a few things. I also cautioned him to be on guard for certain dangers. Is that satisfactory?”

Eragon nodded. He wrapped the leather around the meat and started off. They were
careful to stay out of sight until they reached the road, then quickened their pace, eager to
distance themselves from Carvahall. Eragon plowed ahead determinedly, his legs
burning. The mindless rhythm of walking freed his mind to think.Once we get home, I
won’t travel any farther with Brom until I get some answers, he told himself firmly.I
hope that he can tell me more about the Riders and whom I’m fighting.

As the wreckage of the farm came into view, Brom’s eyebrows beetled with anger.
Eragon was dismayed to see how swiftly nature was reclaiming the farm. Snow and dirt
were already piled inside the house, concealing the violence of the strangers’ attack. All
that remained of the barn was a rapidly eroding rectangle of soot.

Brom’s head snapped up as the sound of Saphira’s wings drifted over the trees. She dived
past them from behind, almost brushing their heads. They staggered as a wall of air
buffeted them. Saphira’s scales glittered as she wheeled over the farm and landed
gracefully.

Brom stepped forward with an expression both solemn and joyous. His eyes were
shining, and a tear shone on his cheek before it disappeared into his beard. He stood there
for a long while, breathing heavily as he watched Saphira, and she him. Eragon heard him
muttering and edged closer to listen.


“So . . . it starts again. But how and where will it end? My sight is veiled; I cannot tell if
this be tragedy or farce, for the elements of both are here. . . . However it may be, my
station is unchanged, and I . . .”

Whatever else he might have said faded away as Saphira proudly approached them.
Eragon passed Brom, pretended he had heard nothing, and greeted her. There was
something different between them now, as if they knew each other even more intimately,
yet were still strangers. He rubbed her neck, and his palm tingled as their minds touched.
A strong curiosity came from her.

I’ve seen no humans except you and Garrow, and he was badly injured,she said.

You’ve viewed people through my eyes.

It’s not the same.She came closer and turned her long head so that she could inspect
Brom with one large blue eye.You really are queer creatures, she said critically, and
continued to stare at him. Brom held still as she sniffed the air, and then he extended a
hand to her. Saphira slowly bowed her head and allowed him to touch her on the brow.
With a snort, she jerked back and retreated behind Eragon. Her tail flicked over the
ground.

What is it?he asked. She did not answer.

Brom turned to him and asked in an undertone, “What’s her name?”

“Saphira.” A peculiar expression crossed Brom’s face. He ground the butt of his staff into
the earth with such force his knuckles turned white. “Of all the names you gave me, it
was the only one she liked. I think it fits,” Eragon added quickly.

“Fit it does,” said Brom. There was something in his voice Eragon could not identify.
Was it loss, wonder, fear, envy? He was not sure; it could have been none of them or all.
Brom raised his voice and said, “Greetings, Saphira. I am honored to meet you.” He
twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed.

I like him,said Saphira quietly.

Of course you do; everyone enjoys flattery.Eragon touched her on the shoulder and went
to the ruined house. Saphira trailed behind with Brom. The old man looked vibrant and
alive.

Eragon climbed into the house and crawled under a door into what was left of his room.
He barely recognized it under the piles of shattered wood. Guided by memory, he
searched where the inside wall had been and found his empty pack. Part of the frame was
broken, but the damage could be easily repaired. He kept rummaging and eventually
uncovered the end of his bow, which was still in its buckskin tube.


Though the leather was scratched and scuffed, he was pleased to see that the oiled wood
was unharmed.Finally, some luck. He strung the bow and pulled on the sinew
experimentally. It bent smoothly, without any snaps or creaks. Satisfied, he hunted for his
quiver, which he found buried nearby. Many of the arrows were broken.

He unstrung the bow and handed it and the quiver to Brom, who said, “It takes a strong
arm to pull that.” Eragon took the compliment silently. He picked through the rest of the
house for other useful items and dumped the collection next to Brom. It was a meager
pile. “What now?” asked Brom. His eyes were sharp and inquisitive. Eragon looked
away.

“We find a place to hide.”

“Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“Yes.” He wrapped all the supplies, except for his bow, into a tight bundle and tied it
shut. Hefting it onto his back, he said, “This way,” and headed into the forest.Saphira,
follow us in the air. Your footprints are too easily found and tracked.

Very well.She took off behind them.

Their destination was nearby, but Eragon took a circuitous route in an effort to baffle any
pursuers. It was well over an hour before he finally stopped in a well-concealed bramble.

The irregular clearing in the center was just large enough for a fire, two people, and a
dragon. Red squirrels scampered into the trees, chattering in protest at their intrusion.
Brom extricated himself from a vine and looked around with interest. “Does anyone else
know of this?” he asked.

“No. I found it when we first moved here. It took me a week to dig into the center, and
another week to clear out all the deadwood.” Saphira landed beside them and folded her
wings, careful to avoid the thorns. She curled up, snapping twigs with her hard scales,
and rested her head on the ground. Her unreadable eyes followed them closely.

Brom leaned against his staff and fixed his gaze on her. His scrutiny made Eragon
nervous.

Eragon watched them until hunger forced him to action. He built a fire, filled a pot with
snow, and then set it over the flames to melt. When the water was hot, he tore off chunks
of meat and dropped them into the pot with a lump of salt.Not much of a meal, he thought
grimly,but it’ll do. I’ll probably be eating this for some time to come, so I might as well
get used to it.

The stew simmered quietly, spreading a rich aroma through the clearing. The tip of
Saphira’s tongue snaked out and tasted the air. When the meat was tender, Brom came


over and Eragon served the food. They ate silently, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Afterward, Brom pulled out his pipe and lit it leisurely.

“Why do you want to travel with me?” asked Eragon.

A cloud of smoke left Brom’s lips and spiraled up through the trees until it disappeared.
“I have a vested interest in keeping you alive,” he said.

“What do you mean?” demanded Eragon.

“To put it bluntly, I’m a storyteller and I happen to think that you will make a fine story.
You’re the first Rider to exist outside of the king’s control for over a hundred years.
What will happen? Will you perish as a martyr? Will you join the Varden? Or will you
kill King Galbatorix? All fascinating questions. And I will be there to see every bit of it,
no matter what I have to do.”

A knot formed in Eragon’s stomach. He could not see himself doing any of those things,
least of all becoming a martyr.I want my vengeance, but for the rest . . . I have no
ambition. “That may be, but tell me, how can you talk with Saphira?”

Brom took his time putting more tobacco in his pipe. Once it was relit and firmly in his
mouth, he said, “Very well, if it’s answers you want, it’s answers you’ll get, but they may
not be to your liking.” He got up, brought his pack over to the fire, and pulled out a long
object wrapped in cloth. It was about five feet long and, from the way he handled it,
rather heavy.

He peeled away the cloth, strip by strip, like a mummy being unswathed. Eragon gazed,
transfixed, as a sword was revealed. The gold pommel was teardrop shaped with the sides
cut away to reveal a ruby the size of a small egg. The hilt was wrapped in silver wire,
burnished until it gleamed like starlight. The sheath was wine red and smooth as glass,
adorned solely by a strange black symbol etched into it. Next to the sword was a leather
belt with a heavy buckle. The last strip fell away, and Brom passed the weapon to
Eragon.

The handle fit Eragon’s hand as if it had been made for him. He slowly drew the sword; it
slid soundlessly from the sheath. The flat blade was iridescent red and shimmered in the
firelight. The keen edges curved gracefully to a sharp point. A duplicate of the black
symbol was inscribed on the metal. The balance of the sword was perfect; it felt like an
extension of his arm, unlike the rude farm tools he was used to. An air of power lay over
it, as if an unstoppable force resided in its core. It had been created for the violent
convulsions of battle, to end men’s lives, yet it held a terrible beauty.

“This was once a Rider’s blade,” said Brom gravely. “When a Rider finished his training,
the elves would present him with a sword. Their methods of forging have always
remained secret. However, their swords are eternally sharp and will never stain. The
custom was to have the blade’s color match that of the Rider’s dragon, but I think we can


make an exception in this case. This sword is named Zar’roc. I don’t know what it means,
probably something personal to the Rider who owned it.” He watched Eragon swing the
sword.

“Where did you get it?” asked Eragon. He reluctantly slipped the blade back into the
sheath and attempted to hand the sword back, but Brom made no move to take it.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Brom. “I will only say that it took me a series of nasty and
dangerous adventures to attain it. Consider it yours. You have more of a claim to it than I
do, and before all is done, I think you will need it.”

The offer caught Eragon off guard. “It is a princely gift, thank you.” Unsure of what else
to say, he slid his hand down the sheath. “What is this symbol?” he asked.

“That was the Rider’s personal crest.” Eragon tried to interrupt, but Brom glared at him
until he was quiet. “Now, if you must know, anyone can learn how to speak to a dragon if
they have the proper training. And,” he raised a finger for emphasis, “it doesn’t mean
anything if they can. I know more about the dragons and their abilities than almost
anyone else alive. On your own it might take years to learn what I can teach you. I’m
offering my knowledge as a shortcut. As for how I know so much, I will keepthat to
myself.”

Saphira pulled herself up as he finished speaking and prowled over to Eragon. He pulled
out the blade and showed her the sword.It has power, she said, touching the point with
her nose. The metal’s iridescent color rippled like water as it met her scales. She lifted
her head with a satisfied snort, and the sword resumed its normal appearance. Eragon
sheathed it, troubled.

Brom raised an eyebrow. “That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. Dragons will
constantly amaze you. Things . . . happen around them, mysterious things that are
impossible anywhere else. Even though the Riders worked with dragons for centuries,
they never completely understood their abilities. Some say that even the dragons don’t
know the full extent of their own powers. They are linked with this land in a way that lets
them overcome great obstacles. What Saphira just did illustrates my earlier point: there is
much you don’t know.”

There was a long pause. “That may be,” said Eragon, “but I can learn. And the strangers
are the most important thing I need to know about right now. Do you have any idea who
they are?”

Brom took a deep breath. “They are called the Ra’zac. No one knows if that’s the name
of their race or what they have chosen to call themselves. Either way, if they have
individual names, they keep them hidden. The Ra’zac were never seen before Galbatorix
came to power. He must have found them during his travels and enlisted them in his
service. Little or nothing is known about them. However, I can tell you this: they aren’t
human. When I glimpsed one’s head, it appeared to have something resembling a beak


and black eyes as large as my fist—though how they manage our speech is a mystery to
me. Doubtless the rest of their bodies are just as twisted. That is why they cover
themselves with cloaks at all times, regardless of the weather.

“As for their powers, they are stronger than any man and can jump incredible heights, but
they cannot use magic. Be thankful for that, because if they could, you would already be
in their grasp. I also know they have a strong aversion to sunlight, though it won’t stop
them if they’re determined. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating a Ra’zac, for they
are cunning and full of guile.”

“How many of them are there?” asked Eragon, wondering how Brom could possibly
know so much.

“As far as I know, only the two you saw. There might be more, but I’ve never heard of
them. Perhaps they’re the last of a dying race. You see, they are the king’s personal
dragon hunters. Whenever rumors reach Galbatorix of a dragon in the land, he sends the
Ra’zac to investigate. A trail of death often follows them.” Brom blew a series of smoke
rings and watched them float up between the brambles. Eragon ignored the rings until he
noticed that they were changing color and darting around. Brom winked slyly.

Eragon was sure that no one had seen Saphira, so how could Galbatorix have heard about
her? When he voiced his objections, Brom said, “You’re right, it seems unlikely that
anyone from Carvahall could have informed the king. Why don’t you tell me where you
got the egg and how you raised Saphira—that might clarify the issue.”

Eragon hesitated, then recounted all the events since he had found the egg in the Spine. It
felt wonderful to finally confide in someone. Brom asked a few questions, but most of the
time he listened intently. The sun was about to set when Eragon finished his tale. Both of
them were quiet as the clouds turned a soft pink. Eragon eventually broke the silence. “I
just wish I knew where she came from. And Saphira doesn’t remember.”

Brom cocked his head. “I don’t know. . . . You’ve made many things clear to me. I am
sure that no one besides us has seen Saphira. The Ra’zac must have had a source of
information outside of this valley, one who is probably dead by now. . . . You have had a
hard time and done much. I’m impressed.”

Eragon stared blankly into the distance, then asked, “What happened to your head? It
looks like you were hit with a rock.”

“No, but that’s a good guess.” He took a deep pull on the pipe. “I was sneaking around
the Ra’zac’s camp after dark, trying to learn what I could, when they surprised me in the
shadows. It was a good trap, but they underestimated me, and I managed to drive them
away. Not, however,” he said wryly, “without this token of my stupidity. Stunned, I fell
to the ground and didn’t regain consciousness until the next day. By then they had
already arrived at your farm. It was too late to stop them, but I set out after them anyway.
That’s when we met on the road.”


Who is he to think that he could take on the Ra’zac alone? They ambushed him in the
dark, and he was only stunned?Unsettled, Eragon asked hotly, “When you saw the mark,
the gedwëy ignasia, on my palm, why didn’t you tell me who the Ra’zac were? I would
have warned Garrow instead of going to Saphira first, and the three of us could have
fled.”

Brom sighed. “I was unsure of what to do at the time. I thought I could keep the Ra’zac
away from you and, once they had left, confront you about Saphira. But they outsmarted
me. It’s a mistake that I deeply regret, and one that has cost you dearly.”

“Who are you?” demanded Eragon, suddenly bitter. “How come a mere village storyteller
happens to have a Rider’s sword? How do you know about the Ra’zac?”

Brom tapped his pipe. “I thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to talk about that.”

“My uncle is dead because of this.Dead! ” exclaimed Eragon, slashing a hand through the
air. “I’ve trusted you this far because Saphira respects you, but no more! You’re not the
person I’ve known in Carvahall for all of these years. Explain yourself!”

For a long time Brom stared at the smoke swirling between them, deep lines creasing his
forehead. When he stirred, it was only to take another puff. Finally he said, “You’ve
probably never thought about it, but most of my life has been spent outside of Palancar
Valley. It was only in Carvahall that I took up the mantle of storyteller. I have played
many roles to different people—I’ve a complicated past. It was partly through a desire to
escape it that I came here. So no, I’m not the man you think I am.”

“Ha!” snorted Eragon. “Then who are you?”

Brom smiled gently. “I am one who is here to help you. Do not scorn those words—they
are the truest I’ve ever spoken. But I’m not going to answer your questions. At this point
you don’t need to hear my history, nor have you yet earned that right. Yes, I have
knowledge Brom the storyteller wouldn’t, but I’m more than he. You’ll have to learn to
live with that fact and the fact that I don’t hand out descriptions of my life to anyone who
asks!”

Eragon glared at him sullenly. “I’m going to sleep,” he said, leaving the fire.

Brom did not seem surprised, but there was sorrow in his eyes. He spread his bedroll next
to the fire as Eragon lay beside Saphira. An icy silence fell over the camp.

SADDLEMAKING

When Eragon’s eyes opened, the memory of Garrow’s death crashed down on him. He
pulled the blankets over his head and cried quietly under their warm darkness. It felt good


just to lie there . . . to hide from the world outside. Eventually the tears stopped. He
cursed Brom. Then he reluctantly wiped his cheeks and got up.

Brom was making breakfast. “Good morning,” he said. Eragon grunted in reply. He
jammed his cold fingers in his armpits and crouched by the fire until the food was ready.
They ate quickly, trying to consume the food before it lost its warmth. When he finished,
Eragon washed his bowl with snow, then spread the stolen leather on the ground.

“What are you going to do with that?” asked Brom. “We can’t carry it with us.”

“I’m going to make a saddle for Saphira.”

“Mmm,” said Brom, moving forward. “Well, dragons used to have two kinds of saddles.
The first was hard and molded like a horse’s saddle. But those take time and tools to
make, neither of which we have. The other was thin and lightly padded, nothing more
than an extra layer between the Rider and dragon. Those saddles were used whenever
speed and flexibility were important, though they weren’t nearly as comfortable as the
molded ones.”

“Do you know what they looked like?” asked Eragon.

“Better, I can make one.”

“Then please do,” said Eragon, standing aside.

“Very well, but pay attention. Someday you may have to do this for yourself.” With
Saphira’s permission, Brom measured her neck and chest. Then he cut five bands out of
the leather and outlined a dozen or so shapes on the hides. Once the pieces had been
sliced out, he cut what remained of the hides into long cords.

Brom used the cords to sew everything together, but for each stitch, two holes had to be
bored through the leather. Eragon helped with that. Intricate knots were rigged in place of
buckles, and every strap was made extra long so the saddle would still fit Saphira in the
coming months.

The main part of the saddle was assembled from three identical sections sewn together
with padding between them. Attached to the front was a thick loop that would fit snugly
around one of Saphira’s neck spikes, while wide bands sewn on either side would wrap
around her belly and tie underneath. Taking the place of stirrups were a series of loops
running down both bands. Tightened, they would hold Eragon’s legs in place. A long
strap was constructed to pass between Saphira’s front legs, split in two, and then come up
behind her front legs to rejoin with the saddle.

While Brom worked, Eragon repaired his pack and organized their supplies. The day was
spent by the time their tasks were completed. Weary from his labor, Brom put the saddle


on Saphira and checked to see that the straps fit. He made a few small adjustments, then
took it off, satisfied.

“You did a good job,” Eragon acknowledged grudgingly.

Brom inclined his head. “One tries his best. It should serve you well; the leather’s sturdy
enough.”

Aren’t you going to try it out?asked Saphira.

Maybe tomorrow,said Eragon, storing the saddle with his blankets.It’s too late now. In
truth he was not eager to fly again—not after the disastrous outcome of his last attempt.

Dinner was made quickly. It tasted good even though it was simple. While they ate, Brom
looked over the fire at Eragon and asked, “Will we leave tomorrow?”

“There isn’t any reason to stay.”

“I suppose not. . . .” He shifted. “Eragon, I must apologize about how events have turned
out. I never wished for this to happen. Your family did not deserve such a tragedy. If
there were anything I could do to reverse it, I would. This is a terrible situation for all of
us.” Eragon sat in silence, avoiding Brom’s gaze, then Brom said, “We’re going to need
horses.”

“Maybe you do, but I have Saphira.”

Brom shook his head. “There isn’t a horse alive that can outrun a flying dragon, and
Saphira is too young to carry us both. Besides, it’ll be safer if we stay together, and riding
is faster than walking.”

“But that’ll make it harder to catch the Ra’zac,” protested Eragon. “On Saphira, I could
probably find them within a day or two. On horses, it’ll take much longer—if it’s even
possible to overtake their lead on the ground!”

Brom said slowly, “That’s a chance you’ll have to take if I’m to accompany you.”

Eragon thought it over. “All right,” he grumbled, “we’ll get horses. But you have to buy
them. I don’t have any money, and I don’t want to steal again. It’s wrong.”

“That depends on your point of view,” corrected Brom with a slight smile. “Before you
set out on this venture, remember that your enemies, the Ra’zac, are the king’s servants.
They will be protected wherever they go. Laws do not stop them. In cities they’ll have
access to abundant resources and willing servants. Also keep in mind that nothing is more
important to Galbatorix than recruiting or killing you—though word of your existence
probably hasn’t reached him yet. The longer you evade the Ra’zac, the more desperate
he’ll become. He’ll know that every day you’ll be growing stronger and that each passing


moment will give you another chance to join his enemies. You must be very careful, as
you may easily turn from the hunter into the hunted.”

Eragon was subdued by the strong words. Pensive, he rolled a twig between his fingers.
“Enough talk,” said Brom. “It’s late and my bones ache. We can say more tomorrow.”
Eragon nodded and banked the fire.

THERINSFORD

Dawn was gray and overcast with a cutting wind. The forest was quiet. After a light
breakfast, Brom and Eragon doused the fire and shouldered their packs, preparing to
leave. Eragon hung his bow and quiver on the side of his pack where he could easily
reach them. Saphira wore the saddle; she would have to carry it until they got horses.
Eragon carefully tied Zar’roc onto her back, too, as he did not want the extra weight.
Besides, in his hands the sword would be no better than a club.

Eragon had felt safe inside the bramble, but outside, wariness crept into his movements.
Saphira took off and circled overhead. The trees thinned as they returned to the farm.

I will see this place again,Eragon insisted to himself, looking at the ruined buildings.This
cannot, will not, be a permanent exile. Someday when it’s safe, I’ll return. . . . Throwing
back his shoulders, he faced south and the strange, barbaric lands that lay there.

As they walked, Saphira veered west toward the mountains and out of sight. Eragon felt
uncomfortable as he watched her go. Even now, with no one around, they could not
spend their days together. She had to stay hidden in case they met a fellow traveler.

The Ra’zac’s footprints were faint on the eroding snow, but Eragon was unconcerned. It
was unlikely that they had forsaken the road, which was the easiest way out of the valley,
for the wilderness. Once outside the valley, however, the road divided in several places. It
would be difficult to ascertain which branch the Ra’zac had taken.

They traveled in silence, concentrating on speed. Eragon’s legs continued to bleed where
the scabs had cracked. To take his mind off the discomfort, he asked, “So what exactly
can dragons do? You said that you knew something of their abilities.”

Brom laughed, his sapphire ring flashing in the air as he gestured. “Unfortunately, it’s a
pitiful amount compared to what I would like to know. Your question is one people have
been trying to answer for centuries, so understand that what I tell you is by its very nature
incomplete. Dragons have always been mysterious, though maybe not on purpose.

“Before I can truly answer your question, you need a basic education on the subject of
dragons. It’s hopelessly confusing to start in the middle of such a complex topic without
understanding the foundation on which it stands. I’ll begin with the life cycle of dragons,
and if that doesn’t wear you out, we can continue to another topic.”


Brom explained how dragons mate and what it took for their eggs to hatch. “You see,” he
said, “when a dragon lays an egg, the infant inside is ready to hatch. But it waits,
sometimes for years, for the right circumstances. When dragons lived in the wild, those
circumstances were usually dictated by the availability of food. However, once they
formed an alliance with the elves, a certain number of their eggs, usually no more than
one or two, were given to the Riders each year. These eggs, or rather the infants inside,
wouldn’t hatch until the person destined to be its Rider came into their presence—though
how they sensed that isn’t known. People used to line up to touch the eggs, hoping that
one of them might be picked.”

“Do you mean that Saphira might not have hatched for me?” asked Eragon.

“Quite possibly, if she hadn’t liked you.”

He felt honored that of all the people in Alagaësia, she had chosen him. He wondered
how long she had been waiting, then shuddered at the thought of being cramped inside an
egg, surrounded by darkness.

Brom continued his lecture. He explained what and when dragons ate. A fully grown
sedentary dragon could go for months without food, but in mating season they had to eat
every week. Some plants could heal their sicknesses, while others would make them ill.
There were various ways to care for their claws and clean their scales.

He explained the techniques to use when attacking from a dragon and what to do if you
were fighting one, whether on foot, horseback, or with another dragon. Their bellies were
armored; their armpits were not. Eragon constantly interrupted to ask questions, and
Brom seemed pleased by the inquiries. Hours passed unheeded as they talked.

When evening came, they were near Therinsford. As the sky darkened and they searched
for a place to camp, Eragon asked, “Who was the Rider that owned Zar’roc?”

“A mighty warrior,” said Brom, “who was much feared in his time and held great
power.”

“What was his name?”

“I’ll not say.” Eragon protested, but Brom was firm. “I don’t want to keep you ignorant,
far from it, but certain knowledge would only prove dangerous and distracting for you
right now. There isn’t any reason for me to trouble you with such things until you have
the time and the power to deal with them. I only wish to protect you from those who
would use you for evil.”

Eragon glared at him. “You know what? I think you just enjoy speaking in riddles. I’ve
half a mind to leave you so I don’t have to be bothered with them. If you’re going to say
something, then say it instead of dancing around with vague phrases!”


“Peace. All will be told in time,” Brom said gently. Eragon grunted, unconvinced.

They found a comfortable place to spend the night and set up camp. Saphira joined them
as dinner was being set on the fire.Did you have time to hunt for food? asked Eragon.

She snorted with amusement.If the two of you were any slower, I would have time to fly
across the sea and back without falling behind.

You don’t have to be insulting. Besides, we’ll go faster once we have horses.

She let out a puff of smoke.Maybe, but will it be enough to catch the Ra’zac? They have
a lead of several days and many leagues. And I’m afraid they may suspect we’re
following them. Why else would they have destroyed the farm in such a spectacular
manner, unless they wished to provoke you into chasing them?

I don’t know,said Eragon, disturbed. Saphira curled up beside him, and he leaned against
her belly, welcoming the warmth. Brom sat on the other side of the fire, whittling two
long sticks. He suddenly threw one at Eragon, who grabbed it out of reflex as it whirled
over the crackling flames.

“Defend yourself!” barked Brom, standing.

Eragon looked at the stick in his hand and saw that it was shaped in the crude likeness of
a sword. Brom wanted to fight him? What chance did the old man stand?If he wants to
play this game, so be it, but if he thinks to beat me, he’s in for a surprise.

He rose as Brom circled the fire. They faced each other for a moment, then Brom
charged, swinging his stick. Eragon tried to block the attack but was too slow. He yelped
as Brom struck him on the ribs, and stumbled backward.

Without thinking, he lunged forward, but Brom easily parried the blow. Eragon whipped
the stick toward Brom’s head, twisted it at the last moment, and then tried to hit his side.
The solid smack of wood striking wood resounded through the camp. “Improvisation—
good!” exclaimed Brom, eyes gleaming. His arm moved in a blur, and there was an
explosion of pain on the side of Eragon’s head. He collapsed like an empty sack, dazed.

A splash of cold water roused him to alertness, and he sat up, sputtering. His head was
ringing, and there was dried blood on his face. Brom stood over him with a pan of melted
snow water. “You didn’t have to do that,” said Eragon angrily, pushing himself up. He
felt dizzy and unsteady.

Brom arched an eyebrow. “Oh? A real enemy wouldn’t soften his blows, and neither will

I. Should I pander to your . . . incompetence so you’ll feel better? I don’t think so.” He
picked up the stick that Eragon had dropped and held it out. “Now, defend yourself.”

Eragon stared blankly at the piece of wood, then shook his head. “Forget it; I’ve had
enough.” He turned away and stumbled as he was whacked loudly across the back. He
spun around, growling.

“Never turn your back to the enemy!” snapped Brom, then tossed the stick at him and
attacked. Eragon retreated around the fire, beneath the onslaught. “Pull your arms in.
Keep your knees bent,” shouted Brom. He continued to give instructions, then paused to
show Eragon exactly how to execute a certain move. “Do it again, but this timeslowly !”
They slid through the forms with exaggerated motions before returning to their furious
battle. Eragon learned quickly, but no matter what he tried, he could not hold Brom off
for more than a few blows.

When they finished, Eragon flopped on his blankets and groaned. He hurt everywhere—
Brom had not been gentle with his stick. Saphira let out a long, coughing growl and
curled her lip until a formidable row of teeth showed.

What’s wrong with you?he demanded irritably.

Nothing,she replied.It’s funny to see a hatchling like you beaten by the old one. She made
the sound again, and Eragon turned red as he realized that she was laughing. Trying to
preserve some dignity, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep.

He felt even worse the next day. Bruises covered his arms, and he was almost too sore to
move. Brom looked up from the mush he was serving and grinned. “How do you feel?”
Eragon grunted and bolted down the breakfast.

Once on the road, they traveled swiftly so as to reach Therinsford before noon. After a
league, the road widened and they saw smoke in the distance. “You’d better tell Saphira
to fly ahead and wait for us on the other side of Therinsford,” said Brom. “She has to be
careful here, otherwise people are bound to notice her.”

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?” challenged Eragon.

“It’s considered bad manners to interfere with another’s dragon.”

“You didn’t have a problem with it in Carvahall.”

Brom’s lips twitched with a smile. “I did what I had to.”

Eragon eyed him darkly, then relayed the instructions. Saphira warned,Be careful; the
Empire’s servants could be hiding anywhere.

As the ruts in the road deepened, Eragon noticed more footprints. Farms signaled their
approach to Therinsford. The village was larger than Carvahall, but it had been
constructed haphazardly, the houses aligned in no particular order.


“What a mess,” said Eragon. He could not see Dempton’s mill.Baldor and Albriech have
surely fetched Roran by now. Either way, Eragon had no wish to face his cousin.

“It’s ugly, if nothing else,” agreed Brom.

The Anora River flowed between them and the town, spanned by a stout bridge. As they
approached it, a greasy man stepped from behind a bush and barred their way. His shirt
was too short, and his dirty stomach spilled over a rope belt. Behind his cracked lips, his
teeth looked like crumbling tombstones. “You c’n stop right there. This’s my bridge.
Gotta pay t’ get over.”

“How much?” asked Brom in a resigned voice. He pulled out a pouch, and the
bridgekeeper brightened.

“Five crowns,” he said, pulling his lips into a broad smile. Eragon’s temper flared at the
exorbitant price, and he started to complain hotly, but Brom silenced him with a quick
look. The coins were wordlessly handed over. The man put them into a sack hanging
from his belt. “Thank’ee much,” he said in a mocking tone, and stood out of the way.

As Brom stepped forward, he stumbled and caught the bridgekeeper’s arm to support
himself. “Watch y’re step,” snarled the grimy man, sidling away.

“Sorry,” apologized Brom, and continued over the bridge with Eragon.

“Why didn’t you haggle? He skinned you alive!” exclaimed Eragon when they were out
of earshot. “He probably doesn’t even own the bridge. We could have pushed right past
him.”

“Probably,” agreed Brom.

“Then why pay him?”

“Because you can’t argue with all of the fools in the world. It’s easier to let them have
their way, then trick them when they’re not paying attention.” Brom opened his hand, and
a pile of coins glinted in the light.

“You cut his purse!” said Eragon incredulously.

Brom pocketed the money with a wink. “And it held a surprising amount. He should
know better than to keep all these coins in one place.” There was a sudden howl of
anguish from the other side of the river. “I’d say our friend has just discovered his loss. If
you see any watchmen, tell me.” He grabbed the shoulder of a young boy running
between the houses and asked, “Do you know where we can buy horses?” The child
stared at them with solemn eyes, then pointed to a large barn near the edge of
Therinsford. “Thank you,” said Brom, tossing him a small coin.


The barn’s large double doors were open, revealing two long rows of stalls. The far wall
was covered with saddles, harnesses, and other paraphernalia. A man with muscular arms
stood at the end, brushing a white stallion. He raised a hand and beckoned for them to
come over.

As they approached, Brom said, “That’s a beautiful animal.”

“Yes indeed. His name’s Snowfire. Mine’s Haberth.” Haberth offered a rough palm and
shook hands vigorously with Eragon and Brom. There was a polite pause as he waited for
their names in return. When they were not forthcoming, he asked, “Can I help you?”

Brom nodded. “We need two horses and a full set of tack for both. The horses have to be
fast and tough; we’ll be doing a lot of traveling.”

Haberth was thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t have many animals like that, and the ones
I do aren’t cheap.” The stallion moved restlessly; he calmed it with a few strokes of his
fingers.

“Price is no object. I’ll take the best you have,” said Brom. Haberth nodded and silently
tied the stallion to a stall. He went to the wall and started pulling down saddles and other
items. Soon he had two identical piles. Next he walked up the line of stalls and brought
out two horses. One was a light bay, the other a roan. The bay tugged against his rope.

“He’s a little spirited, but with a firm hand you won’t have any problems,” said Haberth,
handing the bay’s rope to Brom.

Brom let the horse smell his hand; it allowed him to rub its neck. “We’ll take him,” he
said, then eyed the roan. “The other one, however, I’m not so sure of.”

“There are some good legs on him.”

“Mmm . . . What will you take for Snowfire?”

Haberth looked fondly at the stallion. “I’d rather not sell him. He’s the finest I’ve ever
bred—I’m hoping to sire a whole line from him.”

“If you were willing to part with him, how much would all of this cost me?” asked Brom.

Eragon tried to put his hand on the bay like Brom had, but it shied away. He
automatically reached out with his mind to reassure the horse, stiffening with surprise as
he touched the animal’s consciousness. The contact was not clear or sharp like it was
with Saphira, but he could communicate with the bay to a limited degree. Tentatively, he
made it understand that he was a friend. The horse calmed and looked at him with liquid
brown eyes.


Haberth used his fingers to add up the price of the purchase. “Two hundred crowns and
no less,” he said with a smile, clearly confident that no one would pay that much. Brom
silently opened his pouch and counted out the money.

“Will this do?” he asked.

There was a long silence as Haberth glanced between Snowfire and the coins. A sigh,
then, “He is yours, though I go against my heart.”

“I will treat him as if he had been sired by Gildintor, the greatest steed of legend,” said
Brom.

“Your words gladden me,” answered Haberth, bowing his head slightly. He helped them
saddle the horses. When they were ready to leave, he said, “Farewell, then. For the sake
of Snowfire, I hope that misfortune does not befall you.”

“Do not fear; I will guard him well,” promised Brom as they departed. “Here,” he said,
handing Snowfire’s reins to Eragon, “go to the far side of Therinsford and wait there.”

“Why?” asked Eragon, but Brom had already slipped away. Annoyed, he exited
Therinsford with the two horses and stationed himself beside the road. To the south he
saw the hazy outline of Utgard, sitting like a giant monolith at the end of the valley. Its
peak pierced the clouds and rose out of sight, towering over the lesser mountains that
surrounded it. Its dark, ominous look made Eragon’s scalp tingle.

Brom returned shortly and gestured for Eragon to follow. They walked until Therinsford
was hidden by trees. Then Brom said, “The Ra’zac definitely passed this way. Apparently
they stopped here to pick up horses, as we did. I was able to find a man who saw them.
He described them with many shudders and said that they galloped out of Therinsford
like demons fleeing a holy man.”

“They left quite an impression.”

“Quite.”

Eragon patted the horses. “When we were in the barn, I touched the bay’s mind by
accident. I didn’t know it was possible to do that.”

Brom frowned. “It’s unusual for one as young as you to have the ability. Most Riders had
to train for years before they were strong enough to contact anything other than their
dragon.” His face was thoughtful as he inspected Snowfire. Then he said, “Take
everything from your pack, put it into the saddlebags, and tie the pack on top.” Eragon
did so while Brom mounted Snowfire.

Eragon gazed doubtfully at the bay. It was so much smaller than Saphira that for an
absurd moment he wondered if it could bear his weight. With a sigh, he awkwardly got


into the saddle. He had only ridden horses bareback and never for any distance. “Is this
going to do the same thing to my legs as riding Saphira?” he asked.

“How do they feel now?”

“Not too bad, but I think any hard riding will open them up again.”

“We’ll take it easy,” promised Brom. He gave Eragon a few pointers, then they started
off at a gentle pace. Before long the countryside began to change as cultivated fields
yielded to wilder land. Brambles and tangled weeds lined the road, along with huge
rosebushes that clung to their clothes. Tall rocks slanted out of the ground—gray
witnesses to their presence. There was an unfriendly feel in the air, an animosity that
resisted intruders.

Above them, growing larger with every step, loomed Utgard, its craggy precipices deeply
furrowed with snowy canyons. The black rock of the mountain absorbed light like a
sponge and dimmed the surrounding area. Between Utgard and the line of mountains that
formed the east side of Palancar Valley was a deep cleft. It was the only practical way out
of the valley. The road led toward it.

The horses’ hooves clacked sharply over gravel, and the road dwindled to a skinny trail
as it skirted the base of Utgard. Eragon glanced up at the peak looming over them and
was startled to see a steepled tower perched upon it. The turret was crumbling and in
disrepair, but it was still a stern sentinel over the valley. “What is that?” he asked,
pointing.

Brom did not look up, but said sadly and with bitterness, “An outpost of the Riders—one
that has lasted since their founding. That was where Vrael took refuge, and where,
through treachery, he was found and defeated by Galbatorix. When Vrael fell, this area
was tainted. Edoc’sil, ‘Unconquerable,’ was the name of this bastion, for the mountain is
so steep none may reach the top unless they can fly. After Vrael’s death the commoners
called it Utgard, but it has another name, Ristvak’baen—the ‘Place of Sorrow.’ It was
known as such to the last Riders before they were killed by the king.”

Eragon stared with awe. Here was a tangible remnant of the Riders’ glory, tarnished
though it was by the relentless pull of time. It struck him then just how old the Riders
were. A legacy of tradition and heroism that stretched back to antiquity had fallen upon
him.

They traveled for long hours around Utgard. It formed a solid wall to their right as they
entered the breach that divided the mountain range. Eragon stood in his stirrups; he was
impatient to see what lay outside of Palancar, but it was still too far away. For a while
they were in a sloped pass, winding over hill and gully, following the Anora River. Then,
with the sun low behind their backs, they mounted a rise and saw over the trees.


Eragon gasped. On either side were mountains, but below them stretched a huge plain
that extended to the distant horizon and fused into the sky. The plain was a uniform tan,
like the color of dead grass. Long, wispy clouds swept by overhead, shaped by fierce
winds.

He understood now why Brom had insisted on horses. It would have taken them weeks or
months to cover that vast distance on foot. Far above he saw Saphira circling, high
enough to be mistaken for a bird.

“We’ll wait until tomorrow to make the descent,” said Brom. “It’s going to take most of
the day, so we should camp now.”

“How far across is the plain?” Eragon asked, still amazed.

“Two or three days to over a fortnight, depending on which direction we go. Aside from
the nomad tribes that roam this section of the plains, it’s almost as uninhabited as the
Hadarac Desert to the east. So we aren’t going to find many villages. However, to the
south the plains are less arid and more heavily populated.”

They left the trail and dismounted by the Anora River. As they unsaddled the horses,
Brom gestured at the bay. “You should name him.”

Eragon considered it as he picketed the bay. “Well, I don’t have anything as noble as
Snowfire, but maybe this will do.” He placed his hand on the bay and said, “I name you
Cadoc. It was my grandfather’s name, so bear it well.” Brom nodded in approval, but
Eragon felt slightly foolish.

When Saphira landed, he asked, How do the plains look?

Dull. There’s nothing but rabbits and scrub in every direction.

After dinner, Brom stood and barked, “Catch!” Eragon barely had time to raise his arm
and grab the piece of wood before it hit him on the head. He groaned as he saw another
makeshift sword.

“Not again,” he complained. Brom just smiled and beckoned with one hand. Eragon
reluctantly got to his feet. They whirled around in a flurry of smacking wood, and he
backed away with a stinging arm.

The training session was shorter than the first, but it was still long enough for Eragon to
amass a new collection of bruises. When they finished sparring, he threw down the stick
in disgust and stalked away from the fire to nurse his injuries.

THUNDERROAR ANDLIGHTNINGCRACKLE


The next morning Eragon avoided bringing to mind any of the recent events; they were
too painful for him to consider. Instead, he focused his energies on figuring out how to
find and kill the Ra’zac.I’ll do it with my bow, he decided, imagining how the cloaked
figures would look with arrows sticking out of them.

He had difficulty even standing up. His muscles cramped with the slightest movement,
and one of his fingers was hot and swollen. When they were ready to leave, he mounted
Cadoc and said acidly, “If this keeps up, you’re going to batter me to pieces.”

“I wouldn’t push you so hard if I didn’t think you were strong enough.”

“For once, I wouldn’t mind being thought less of,” muttered Eragon.

Cadoc pranced nervously as Saphira approached. Saphira eyed the horse with something
close to disgust and said,There’s nowhere to hide on the plains, so I’m not going to
bother trying to stay out of sight. I’ll just fly above you from now on.

She took off, and they began the steep descent. In many places the trail all but
disappeared, leaving them to find their own way down. At times they had to dismount
and lead the horses on foot, holding on to trees to keep from falling down the slope. The
ground was scattered with loose rocks, which made the footing treacherous. The ordeal
left them hot and irritable, despite the cold.

They stopped to rest when they reached the bottom near midday. The Anora River veered
to their left and flowed northward. A biting wind scoured the land, whipping them
unmercifully. The soil was parched, and dirt flew into their eyes.

It unnerved Eragon how flat everything was; the plains were unbroken by hummocks or
mounds. He had lived his entire life surrounded by mountains and hills. Without them he
felt exposed and vulnerable, like a mouse under an eagle’s keen eye.

The trail split in three once it reached the plains. The first branch turned north, toward
Ceunon, one of the greatest northern cities; the second one led straight across the plains;
and the last went south. They examined all three for traces of the Ra’zac and eventually
found their tracks, heading directly into the grasslands.

“It seems they’ve gone to Yazuac,” said Brom with a perplexed air.

“Where’s that?”

“Due east and four days away, if all goes well. It’s a small village situated by the Ninor
River.” He gestured at the Anora, which streamed away from them to the north. “Our
only supply of water is here. We’ll have to replenish our waterskins before attempting to
cross the plains. There isn’t another pool or stream between here and Yazuac.”


The excitement of the hunt began to rise within Eragon. In a few days, maybe less than a
week, he would use his arrows to avenge Garrow’s death.And then . . . He refused to
think about what might happen afterward.

They filled the waterskins, watered the horses, and drank as much as they could from the
river. Saphira joined them and took several gulps of water. Fortified, they turned
eastward and started across the plains.

Eragon decided that it would be the wind that drove him crazy first. Everything that made
him miserable—his chapped lips, parched tongue, and burning eyes—stemmed from it.
The ceaseless gusting followed them throughout the day. Evening only strengthened the
wind, instead of subduing it.

Since there was no shelter, they were forced to camp in the open. Eragon found some
scrub brush, a short tough plant that thrived on harsh conditions, and pulled it up. He
made a careful pile and tried to light it, but the woody stems only smoked and gave off a
pungent smell. Frustrated, he tossed the tinderbox to Brom. “I can’t make it burn,
especially with this blasted wind. See if you can get it going: otherwise dinner will be
cold.”

Brom knelt by the brush and looked at it critically. He rearranged a couple of branches,
then struck the tinderbox, sending a cascade of sparks onto the plants. There was smoke,
but nothing else. Brom scowled and tried again, but his luck was no better than Eragon’s.
“Brisingr!” he swore angrily, striking the flint again. Flames suddenly appeared, and he
stepped back with a pleased expression. “There we go. It must have been smoldering
inside.”

They sparred with mock swords while the food cooked. Fatigue made it hard on both of
them, so they kept the session short. After they had eaten, they lay next to Saphira and
slept, grateful for her shelter.

The same cold wind greeted them in the morning, sweeping over the dreadful flatness.
Eragon’s lips had cracked during the night; every time he smiled or talked, beads of
blood covered them. Licking them only made it worse. It was the same for Brom. They
let the horses drink sparingly from their supply of water before mounting them. The day
was a monotonous trek of endless plodding.

On the third day, Eragon woke well rested. That, coupled with the fact that the wind had
stopped, put him in a cheery humor. His high spirits were dampened, however, when he
saw the sky ahead of them was dark with thunderheads.


Brom looked at the clouds and grimaced. “Normally I wouldn’t go into a storm like that,
but we’re in for a battering no matter what we do, so we might as well get some distance
covered.”

It was still calm when they reached the storm front. As they entered its shadow, Eragon
looked up. The thundercloud had an exotic structure, forming a natural cathedral with a
massive arched roof. With some imagination he could see pillars, windows, soaring tiers,
and snarling gargoyles. It was a wild beauty.

As Eragon lowered his gaze, a giant ripple raced toward them through the grass,
flattening it. It took him a second to realize that the wave was a tremendous blast of wind.
Brom saw it too, and they hunched their shoulders, preparing for the storm.

The gale was almost upon them when Eragon had a horrible thought and twisted in his
saddle, yelling, both with his voice and mind,“Saphira! Land!” Brom’s face grew pale.
Overhead, they saw her dive toward the ground.She’s not going to make it!

Saphira angled back the way they had come, to gain time. As they watched, the tempest’s
wrath struck them like a hammer blow. Eragon gasped for breath and clenched the saddle
as a frenzied howling filled his ears. Cadoc swayed and dug his hooves into the ground,
mane snapping in the air. The wind tore at their clothes with invisible fingers while the
air darkened with billowing clouds of dust.

Eragon squinted, searching for Saphira. He saw her land heavily and then crouch,
clenching the ground with her talons. The wind reached her just as she started to fold her
wings. With an angry yank, it unfurled them and dragged her into the air. For a moment
she hung there, suspended by the storm’s force. Then it slammed her down on her back.

With a savage wrench, Eragon yanked Cadoc around and galloped back up the trail,
goading the horse with both heels and mind.Saphira! he shouted.Try to stay on the
ground. I’m coming! He felt a grim acknowledgment from her. As they neared Saphira,
Cadoc balked, so Eragon leapt down and ran toward her.

His bow banged against his head. A strong gust pushed him off balance and he flew
forward, landing on his chest. He skidded, then got back up with a snarl, ignoring the
deep scrapes in his skin.

Saphira was only three yards away, but he could get no closer because of her flailing
wings. She struggled to fold them against the overpowering gale. He rushed at her right
wing, intending to hold it down, but the wind caught her and she somersaulted over him.
The spines on her back missed his head by inches. Saphira clawed at the ground, trying to
stay down.

Her wings began to lift again, but before they could flip her, Eragon threw himself at the
left one. The wing crumpled in at the joints and Saphira tucked it firmly against her body.
Eragon vaulted over her back and tumbled onto the other wing. Without warning it was


blown upward, sending him sliding to ground. He broke his fall with a roll, then jumped
up and grabbed the wing again. Saphira started to fold it, and he pushed with all of his
strength. The wind battled with them for a second, but with one last surge they overcame
it.

Eragon leaned against Saphira, panting.Are you all right? He could feel her trembling.

She took a moment to answer.I . . . I think so. She sounded shaken.Nothing’s broken—I
couldn’t do anything; the wind wouldn’t let me go. I was helpless. With a shudder, she
fell silent.

He looked at her, concerned.Don’t worry, you’re safe now. He spotted Cadoc a ways off,
standing with his back to the wind. With his mind, Eragon instructed the horse to return
to Brom. He then got onto Saphira. She crept up the road, fighting the gale while he clung
to her back and kept his head down.

When they reached Brom, he shouted over the storm, “Is she hurt?”

Eragon shook his head and dismounted. Cadoc trotted over to him, nickering. As he
stroked the horse’s long cheek, Brom pointed at a dark curtain of rain sweeping toward
them in rippling gray sheets. “What else?” cried Eragon, pulling his clothes tighter. He
winced as the torrent reached them. The stinging rain was cold as ice; before long they
were drenched and shivering.

Lightning lanced through the sky, flickering in and out of existence. Mile-high blue bolts
streaked across the horizon, followed by peals of thunder that shook the ground below. It
was beautiful, but dangerously so. Here and there, grass fires were ignited by strikes, only
to be extinguished by the rain.

The wild elements were slow to abate, but as the day passed, they wandered elsewhere.
Once again the sky was revealed, and the setting sun glowed with brilliance. As beams of
light tinted the clouds with blazing colors, everything gained a sharp contrast: brightly lit
on one side, deeply shadowed on the other. Objects had a unique sense of mass; grass
stalks seemed sturdy as marble pillars. Ordinary things took on an unearthly beauty;
Eragon felt as if he were sitting inside a painting.

The rejuvenated earth smelled fresh, clearing their minds and raising their spirits. Saphira
stretched, craning her neck, and roared happily. The horses skittered away from her, but
Eragon and Brom smiled at her exuberance.

Before the light faded, they stopped for the night in a shallow depression. Too exhausted
to spar, they went straight to sleep.

REVELATION ATYAZUAC


Although they had managed to partially refill the waterskins during the storm, they
drank the last of their water that morning. “I hope we’re going in the right direction,” said
Eragon, crunching up the empty water bag, “because we’ll be in trouble if we don’t reach
Yazuac today.”

Brom did not seem disturbed. “I’ve traveled this way before. Yazuac will be in sight
before dusk.”

Eragon laughed doubtfully. “Perhaps you see something I don’t. How can you know that
when everything looks exactly the same for leagues around?”

“Because I am guided not by the land, but by the stars and sun. They will not lead us
astray. Come! Let us be off. It is foolish to conjure up woe where none exists. Yazuac
will be there.”

His words proved true. Saphira spotted the village first, but it was not until later in the
day that the rest of them saw it as a dark bump on the horizon. Yazuac was still very far
away; it was only visible because of the plain’s uniform flatness. As they rode closer, a
dark winding line appeared on either side of the town and disappeared in the distance.

“The Ninor River,” said Brom, pointing at it.

Eragon pulled Cadoc to a stop. “Saphira will be seen if she stays with us much longer.
Should she hide while we go into Yazuac?”

Brom scratched his chin and looked at the town. “See that bend in the river? Have her
wait there. It’s far enough from Yazuac so no one should find her, but close enough that
she won’t be left behind. We’ll go through the town, get what we need, and then meet
her.”

I don’t like it,said Saphira when Eragon had explained the plan.This is irritating, having
to hide all the time like a criminal.

You know what would happen if we were revealed.She grumbled but gave in and flew
away low to the ground.

They kept a swift pace in anticipation of the food and drink they would soon enjoy. As
they approached the small houses, they could see smoke from a dozen chimneys, but
there was no one in the streets. An abnormal silence enveloped the village. By unspoken
consent they stopped before the first house. Eragon abruptly said, “There aren’t any dogs
barking.”

“No.”

“Doesn’t mean anything, though.”


“. . . No.”

Eragon paused. “Someone should have seen us by now.”

“Yes.”

“Then why hasn’t anyone come out?”

Brom squinted at the sun. “Could be afraid.”

“Could be,” said Eragon. He was quiet for a moment. “And if it’s a trap? The Ra’zac
might be waiting for us.”

“We need provisions and water.”

“There’s the Ninor.”

“Still need provisions.”

“True.” Eragon looked around. “So we go in?”

Brom flicked his reins. “Yes, but not like fools. This is the main entrance to Yazuac. If
there’s an ambush, it’ll be along here. No one will expect us to arrive from a different
direction.”

“Around to the side, then?” asked Eragon. Brom nodded and pulled out his sword, resting
the bare blade across his saddle. Eragon strung his bow and nocked an arrow.

They trotted quietly around the town and entered it cautiously. The streets were empty,
except for a small fox that darted away as they came near. The houses were dark and
foreboding, with shattered windows. Many of the doors swung on broken hinges. The
horses rolled their eyes nervously. Eragon’s palm tingled, but he resisted the urge to
scratch it. As they rode into the center of town, he gripped his bow tighter, blanching.
“Gods above,” he whispered.

A mountain of bodies rose above them, the corpses stiff and grimacing. Their clothes
were soaked in blood, and the churned ground was stained with it. Slaughtered men lay
over the women they had tried to protect, mothers still clasped their children, and lovers
who had tried to shield each other rested in death’s cold embrace. Black arrows stuck out
of them all. Neither young nor old had been spared. But worst of all was the barbed spear
that rose out of the peak of the pile, impaling the white body of a baby.

Tears blurred Eragon’s vision and he tried to look away, but the dead faces held his
attention. He stared at their open eyes and wondered how life could have left them so
easily.What does our existence mean when it can end like this? A wave of hopelessness
overwhelmed him.


A crow dipped out of the sky, like a black shadow, and perched on the spear. It cocked its
head and greedily scrutinized the infant’s corpse. “Oh no you don’t,” snarled Eragon as
he pulled back the bowstring and released it with a twang. With a puff of feathers, the
crow fell over backward, the arrow protruding from its chest. Eragon fit another arrow to
the string, but nausea rose from his stomach and he threw up over Cadoc’s side.

Brom patted him on the back. When Eragon was done, Brom asked gently, “Do you want
to wait for me outside Yazuac?”

“No . . . I’ll stay,” said Eragon shakily, wiping his mouth. He avoided looking at the
gruesome sight before them. “Who could have done . . .” He could not force out the
words.

Brom bowed his head. “Those who love the pain and suffering of others. They wear
many faces and go by many disguises, but there is only one name for them: evil. There is
no understanding it. All we can do is pity and honor the victims.”

He dismounted Snowfire and walked around, inspecting the trampled ground carefully.
“The Ra’zac passed this way,” he said slowly, “but this wasn’t their doing. This is Urgal
work; the spear is of their make. A company of them came through here, perhaps as many
as a hundred. It’s odd; I know of only a few instances when they have gathered in such . .
.” He knelt and examined a footprint intently. With a curse he ran back to Snowfire and
leapt onto him.

“Ride!” he hissed tightly, spurring Snowfire forward. “There are still Urgals here!”
Eragon jammed his heels into Cadoc. The horse jumped forward and raced after
Snowfire. They dashed past the houses and were almost to the edge of Yazuac when
Eragon’s palm tingled again. He saw a flicker of movement to his right, then a giant fist
smashed him out of the saddle. He flew back over Cadoc and crashed into a wall, holding
on to his bow only by instinct. Gasping and stunned, he staggered upright, hugging his
side.

An Urgal stood over him, face set in a gross leer. The monster was tall, thick, and broader
than a doorway, with gray skin and yellow piggish eyes. Muscles bulged on his arms and
chest, which was covered by a too small breastplate. An iron cap rested over the pair of
ram’s horns curling from his temples, and a roundshield was bound to one arm. His
powerful hand held a short, wicked sword.

Behind him, Eragon saw Brom rein in Snowfire and start back, only to be stopped by the
appearance of a second Urgal, this one with an ax. “Run, you fool!” Brom cried to
Eragon, cleaving at his enemy. The Urgal in front of Eragon roared and swung his sword
mightily. Eragon jerked back with a startled yelp as the weapon whistled past his cheek.
He spun around and fled toward the center of Yazuac, heart pounding wildly.

The Urgal pursued him, heavy boots thudding. Eragon sent a desperate cry for help to
Saphira, then forced himself to go even faster. The Urgal rapidly gained ground despite


Eragon’s efforts; large fangs separated in a soundless bellow. With the Urgal almost upon
him, Eragon strung an arrow, spun to a stop, took aim, and released. The Urgal snapped
up his arm and caught the quivering bolt on his shield. The monster collided with Eragon
before he could shoot again, and they fell to the ground in a confused tangle.

Eragon sprang to his feet and rushed back to Brom, who was trading fierce blows with
his opponent from Snowfire’s back.Where are the rest of the Urgals? wondered Eragon
frantically.Are these two the only ones in Yazuac? There was a loud smack, and Snowfire
reared, whinnying. Brom doubled over in his saddle, blood streaming down his arm. The
Urgal beside him howled in triumph and raised his ax for the death blow.

A deafening scream tore out of Eragon as he charged the Urgal, headfirst. The Urgal
paused in astonishment, then faced him contemptuously, swinging his ax. Eragon ducked
under the two-handed blow and clawed the Urgal’s side, leaving bloody furrows. The
Urgal’s face twisted with rage. He slashed again, but missed as Eragon dived to the side
and scrambled down an alley.

Eragon concentrated on leading the Urgals away from Brom. He slipped into a narrow
passageway between two houses, saw it was a dead end, and slid to a stop. He tried to
back out, but the Urgals had already blocked the entrance. They advanced, cursing him in
their gravelly voices. Eragon swung his head from side to side, searching for a way out,
but there was none.

As he faced the Urgals, images flashed in his mind: dead villagers piled around the spear
and an innocent baby who would never grow to adulthood. At the thought of their fate, a
burning, fiery power gathered from every part of his body. It was more than a desire for
justice. It was his entire being rebelling against the fact of death—that he would cease to
exist. The power grew stronger and stronger until he felt ready to burst from the
contained force.

He stood tall and straight, all fear gone. He raised his bow smoothly. The Urgals laughed
and lifted their shields. Eragon sighted down the shaft, as he had done hundreds of times,
and aligned the arrowhead with his target. The energy inside him burned at an unbearable
level. He had to release it, or it would consume him. A word suddenly leapt unbidden to
his lips. He shot, yelling, “Brisingr!”

The arrow hissed through the air, glowing with a crackling blue light. It struck the lead
Urgal on the forehead, and the air resounded with an explosion. A blue shock wave
blasted out of the monster’s head, killing the other Urgal instantly. It reached Eragon
before he had time to react, and it passed through him without harm, dissipating against
the houses.

Eragon stood panting, then looked at his icy palm. The gedwëy ignasia was glowing like
white-hot metal, yet even as he watched, it faded back to normal. He clenched his fist,
then a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He felt strange and feeble, as if he had not
eaten for days. His knees buckled, and he sagged against a wall.


ADMONISHMENTS

Once a modicum of strength returned to him, Eragon staggered out of the alley, skirting
the dead monsters. He did not get far before Cadoc trotted to his side. “Good, you
weren’t hurt,” mumbled Eragon. He noticed, without particularly caring, that his hands
were shaking violently and his movements were jerky. He felt detached, as if everything
he saw were happening to someone else.

Eragon found Snowfire, nostrils flared and ears flat against his head, prancing by the
corner of a house, ready to bolt. Brom was still slumped motionless in the saddle. Eragon
reached out with his mind and soothed the horse. Once Snowfire relaxed, Eragon went to
Brom.

There was a long, blood-soaked cut on the old man’s right arm. The wound bled
profusely, but it was neither deep nor wide. Still, Eragon knew it had to be bound before
Brom lost too much blood. He stroked Snowfire for a moment, then slid Brom out of the
saddle. The weight proved too much for him, and Brom dropped heavily to the ground.
Eragon was shocked by his own weakness.

A scream of rage filled his head. Saphira dived out of the sky and landed fiercely in front
of him, keeping her wings half raised. She hissed angrily, eyes burning. Her tail lashed,
and Eragon winced as it snapped overhead.Are you hurt? she asked, rage boiling in her
voice.

“No,” he assured her as he laid Brom on his back.

She growled and exclaimed,Where are the ones who did this? I will tear them apart!

He wearily pointed in the direction of the alley. “It’ll do no good; they’re already dead.”

You killed them?Saphira sounded surprised.

He nodded. “Somehow.” With a few terse words, he told her what had happened while he
searched his saddlebags for the rags in which Zar’roc had been wrapped.

Saphira said gravely,You have grown.

Eragon grunted. He found a long rag and carefully rolled back Brom’s sleeve. With a few
deft strokes he cleaned the cut and bandaged it tightly.I wish we were still in Palancar
Valley , he said to Saphira.There, at least, I knew what plants were good for healing.
Here, I don’t have any idea what will help him. He retrieved Brom’s sword from the
ground, wiped it, then returned it to the sheath on Brom’s belt.

We should leave,said Saphira.There may be more Urgals lurking about.


Can you carry Brom?Your saddle will hold him in place, and you can protect him.

Yes, but I’m not leaving you alone.

Fine, fly next to me, but let’s get out of here.He tied the saddle onto Saphira, then put his
arms around Brom and tried to lift him, but again his diminished strength failed
him.Saphira—help.

She snaked her head past him and caught the back of Brom’s robe between her teeth.
Arching her neck, she lifted the old man off the ground, like a cat would a kitten, and
deposited him onto her back. Then Eragon slipped Brom’s legs through the saddle’s
straps and tightened them. He looked up when the old man moaned and shifted.

Brom blinked blearily, putting a hand to his head. He gazed down at Eragon with
concern. “Did Saphira get here in time?”

Eragon shook his head. “I’ll explain it later. Your arm is injured. I bandaged it as best I
could, but you need a safe place to rest.”

“Yes,” said Brom, gingerly touching his arm. “Do you know where my sword . . . Ah, I
see you found it.”

Eragon finished tightening the straps. “Saphira’s going to take you and follow me by air.”

“Are you sure you want me to ride her?” asked Brom. “I can ride Snowfire.”

“Not with that arm. This way, even if you faint, you won’t fall off.”

Brom nodded. “I’m honored.” He wrapped his good arm around Saphira’s neck, and she
took off in a flurry, springing high into the sky. Eragon backed away, buffeted by the
eddies from her wings, and returned to the horses.

He tied Snowfire behind Cadoc, then left Yazuac, returning to the trail and following it
southward. It led through a rocky area, veered left, and continued along the bank of the
Ninor River. Ferns, mosses, and small bushes dotted the side of the path. It was
refreshingly cool under the trees, but Eragon did not let the soothing air lull him into a
sense of security. He stopped briefly to fill the waterskins and let the horses drink.
Glancing down, he saw the Ra’zac’s spoor.At least we’re going in the right direction.
Saphira circled overhead, keeping a keen eye on him.

It disturbed him that they had seen only two Urgals. The villagers had been killed and
Yazuac ransacked by a large horde, yet where was it?Perhaps the ones we encountered
were a rear guard or a trap left for anyone who was following the main force.

His thoughts turned to how he had killed the Urgals. An idea, a revelation, slowly
wormed its way through his mind. He, Eragon—farm boy of Palancar Valley—had used


magic.Magic! It was the only word for what had happened. It seemed impossible, but he
could not deny what he had seen.Somehow I’ve become a sorcerer or wizard! But he did
not know how to use this new power again or what its limits and dangers might be.How
can I have this ability? Was it common among the Riders? And if Brom knew of it, why
didn’t he tell me? He shook his head in wonder and bewilderment.

He conversed with Saphira to check on Brom’s condition and to share his thoughts. She
was just as puzzled as he was about the magic.Saphira, can you find us a place to stay? I
can’t see very far down here. While she searched, he continued along the Ninor.

The summons reached him just as the light was fading.Come. Saphira sent him an image
of a secluded clearing in the trees by the river. Eragon turned the horses in the new
direction and nudged them into a trot. With Saphira’s help it was easy to find, but it was
so well hidden that he doubted anyone else would notice it.

A small, smokeless fire was already burning when he entered the clearing. Brom sat next
to it, tending his arm, which he held at an awkward angle. Saphira was crouched beside
him, her body tense. She looked intently at Eragon and asked,Are you sure you aren’t
hurt?

Not on the outside . . . but I’m not sure about the rest of me.

I should have been there sooner.

Don’t feel bad. We all made mistakes today. Mine was not staying closer to you.Her
gratitude for that remark washed over him. He looked at Brom. “How are you?”

The old man glanced at his arm. “It’s a large scratch and hurts terribly, but it should heal
quickly enough. I need a fresh bandage; this one didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.” They
boiled water to wash Brom’s wound. Then Brom tied a fresh rag to his arm and said, “I
must eat, and you look hungry as well. Let’s have dinner first, then talk.”

When their bellies were full and warm, Brom lit his pipe. “Now, I think it’s time for you
to tell me what transpired while I was unconscious. I am most curious.” His face reflected
the flickering firelight, and his bushy eyebrows stuck out fiercely.

Eragon nervously clasped his hands and told the story without embellishment. Brom
remained silent throughout it, his face inscrutable. When Eragon finished, Brom looked
down at the ground. For a long time the only sound was the snapping fire. Brom finally
stirred. “Have you used this power before?”

“No. Do you know anything about it?”

“A little.” Brom’s face was thoughtful. “It seems I owe you a debt for saving my life. I
hope I can return the favor someday. You should be proud; few escape unscathed from


slaying their first Urgal. But the manner in which you did it was very dangerous. You
could have destroyed yourself and the whole town.”

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice,” said Eragon defensively. “The Urgals were almost upon
me. If I had waited, they would have chopped me into pieces!”

Brom stamped his teeth vigorously on the pipe stem. “You didn’t have any idea what you
were doing.”

“Then tell me,” challenged Eragon. “I’ve been searching for answers to this mystery, but
I can’t make sense of it. What happened? How could I have possibly used magic? No one
has ever instructed me in it or taught me spells.”

Brom’s eyes flashed. “This isn’t something you should be taught—much less use!”

“Well, Ihave used it, and I may need it to fight again. But I won’t be able to if you don’t
help me. What’s wrong? Is there some secret I’m not supposed to learn until I’m old and
wise? Or maybe you don’t know anything about magic!”

“Boy!” roared Brom. “You demand answers with an insolence rarely seen. If you knew
what you asked for, you would not be so quick to inquire. Do not try me.” He paused,
then relaxed into a kinder countenance. “The knowledge you ask for is more complex
than you understand.”

Eragon rose hotly in protest. “I feel as though I’ve been thrust into a world with strange
rules that no one will explain.”

“I understand,” said Brom. He fiddled with a piece of grass. “It’s late and we should
sleep, but I will tell you a few things now, to stop your badgering. This magic—for it is
magic—has rules like the rest of the world. If you break the rules, the penalty is death,
without exception. Your deeds are limited by your strength, the words you know, and
your imagination.”

“What do you mean by words?” asked Eragon.

“More questions!” cried Brom. “For a moment I had hoped you were empty of them. But
you are quite right in asking. When you shot the Urgals, didn’t you say something?”

“Yes,brisingr. ” The fire flared, and a shiver ran through Eragon. Something about the
word made him feel incredibly alive.

“I thought so.Brisingr is from an ancient language that all living things used to speak.
However, it was forgotten over time and went unspoken for eons in Alagaësia, until the
elves brought it back over the sea. They taught it to the other races, who used it for
making and doing powerful things. The language has a name for everything, if you can
find it.”


“But what does that have to do with magic?” interrupted Eragon.

“Everything! It is the basis for all power. The language describes the true nature of
things, not the superficial aspects that everyone sees. For example, fire is calledbrisingr .
Not only is thata name for fire, it isthe name for fire. If you are strong enough, you can
usebrisingr to direct fire to do whatever you will. And that is what happened today.”

Eragon thought about it for a moment. “Why was the fire blue? How come it did exactly
what I wanted, if all I said wasfire ?”

“The color varies from person to person. It depends on who says the word. As to why the
fire did what you wanted, that’s a matter of practice. Most beginners have to spell out
exactly what they want to happen. As they gain more experience, it isn’t as necessary. A
true master could just saywater and create something totally unrelated, like a gemstone.
You wouldn’t be able to understand how he had done it, but the master would have seen
the connection betweenwater and the gem and would have used that as the focal point for
his power. The practice is more of an art than anything else. What you did was extremely
difficult.”

Saphira interrupted Eragon’s thoughts.Brom is a magician! That’s how he was able to
light the fire on the plains. He doesn’t just know about magic; he can use it himself!

Eragon’s eyes widened.You’re right!

Ask him about this power, but be careful of what you say. It is unwise to trifle with those
who have such abilities. If he is a wizard or sorcerer, who knows what his motives might
have been for settling in Carvahall?

Eragon kept that in mind as he said carefully, “Saphira and I just realized something. You
can use this magic, can’t you? That’s how you started the fire our first day on the plains.”

Brom inclined his head slightly. “I am proficient to some degree.”

“Then why didn’t you fight the Urgals with it? In fact, I can think of many times when it
would have been useful—you could have shielded us from the storm and kept the dirt out
of our eyes.”

After refilling his pipe, Brom said, “Some simple reasons, really. I am not a Rider, which
means that, even at your weakest moment, you are stronger than I. And I have outlived
my youth; I’m not as strong as I used to be. Every time I reach for magic, it gets a little
harder.”

Eragon dropped his eyes, abashed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Brom as he shifted his arm. “It happens to everyone.”


“Where did you learn to use magic?”

“That is one fact I’ll keep to myself. . . . Suffice it to say, it was in a remote area and from
a very good teacher. I can, at the very least, pass on his lessons.” Brom snuffed his pipe
with a small rock. “I know that you have more questions, and I will answer them, but
they must wait until morning.”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Until then, I will say this to discourage any
experiments: magic takes just as much energy as if you used your arms and back. That is
why you felt tired after destroying the Urgals. And that is why I was angry. It was a
dreadful risk on your part. If the magic had used more energy than was in your body, it
would have killed you. You should use magic only for tasks that can’t be accomplished
the mundane way.”

“How do you know if a spell will use all your energy?” asked Eragon, frightened.

Brom raised his hands. “Most of the time you don’t. That’s why magicians have to know
their limits well, and even then they are cautious. Once you commit to a task and release
the magic, you can’t pull it back, even if it’s going to kill you. I mean this as a warning:
don’t try anything until you’ve learned more. Now, enough of this for tonight.”

As they spread out their blankets, Saphira commented with satisfaction,We are becoming
more powerful, Eragon, both of us. Soon no one will be able to stand in our way.

Yes, but which way shall we choose?

Whichever one we want,she said smugly, settling down for the night.

MAGICIS THE
SIMPLESTTHING

“Why do you think those two Urgals were still in Yazuac?” asked Eragon, after they
had been on the trail for a while. “There doesn’t seem to be any reason for them to have
stayed behind.”

“I suspect they deserted the main group to loot the town. What makes it odd is that, as far
as I know, Urgals have gathered in force only two or three times in history. It’s unsettling
that they are doing it now.”

“Do you think the Ra’zac caused the attack?”

“I don’t know. The best thing we can do is continue away from Yazuac at the fastest pace
we can muster. Besides, this is the direction the Ra’zac went: south.”

Eragon agreed. “We still need provisions, however. Is there another town nearby?”


Brom shook his head. “No, but Saphira can hunt for us if we must survive on meat alone.
This swath of trees may look small to you, but there are plenty of animals in it. The river
is the only source of water for many miles around, so most of the plains animals come
here to drink. We won’t starve.”

Eragon remained quiet, satisfied with Brom’s answer. As they rode, loud birds darted
around them, and the river rushed by peacefully. It was a noisy place, full of life and
energy. Eragon asked, “How did that Urgal get you? Things were happening so fast, I
didn’t see.”

“Bad luck, really,” grumbled Brom. “I was more than a match for him, so he kicked
Snowfire. The idiot of a horse reared and threw me off balance. That was all the Urgal
needed to give me this gash.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose you’re still wondering
about this magic. The fact that you’ve discovered it presents a thorny problem. Few know
it, but every Rider could use magic, though with differing strengths. They kept the ability
secret, even at the height of their power, because it gave them an advantage over their
enemies. Had everyone known about it, dealing with common people would have been
difficult. Many think the king’s magical powers come from the fact that he is a wizard or
sorcerer. That’s not true; it is because he’s a Rider.”

“What’s the difference? Doesn’t the fact that I used magic make me a sorcerer?”

“Not at all! A sorcerer, like a Shade, uses spirits to accomplish his will. That is totally
different from your power. Nor does that make you a magician, whose powers come
without the aid of spirits or a dragon. And you’re certainly not a witch or wizard, who get
their powers from various potions and spells.

“Which brings me back to my original point: the problem you’ve presented. Young
Riders like yourself were put through a strict regimen designed to strengthen their bodies
and increase their mental control. This regimen continued for many months, occasionally
years, until the Riders were deemed responsible enough to handle magic. Up until then,
not one student was told of his potential powers. If one of them discovered magic by
accident, he or she was immediately taken away for private tutoring. It was rare for
anyone to discover magic on his own,” he inclined his head toward Eragon, “though they
were never put under the same pressure you were.”

“Then how were they finally trained to use magic?” asked Eragon. “I don’t see how you
could teach it to anyone. If you had tried to explain it to me two days ago, it wouldn’t
have made any sense.”

“The students were presented with a series of pointless exercises designed to frustrate
them. For example, they were instructed to move piles of stones using only their feet, fill
ever draining tubs full of water, and other impossibilities. After a time, they would get
infuriated enough to use magic. Most of the time it succeeded.


“What this means,” Brom continued, “is that you will be disadvantaged if you ever meet
an enemy who has received this training. There are still some alive who are that old: the
king for one, not to mention the elves. Any one of those could tear you apart with ease.”

“What can I do, then?”

“There isn’t time for formal instruction, but we can do much while we travel,” said Brom.
“I know many techniques you can practice that will give you strength and control, but
you cannot gain the discipline the Riders had overnight. You,” he looked at Eragon
humorously, “will have to amass it on the run. It will be hard in the beginning, but the
rewards will be great. It may please you to know that no Rider your age ever used magic
the way you did yesterday with those two Urgals.”

Eragon smiled at the praise. “Thank you. Does this language have a name?”

Brom laughed. “Yes, but no one knows it. It would be a word of incredible power,
something by which you could control the entire language and those who use it. People
have long searched for it, but no one has ever found it.”

“I still don’t understand how this magic works,” said Eragon. “Exactly how do I use it?”

Brom looked astonished. “I haven’t made that clear?”

“No.”

Brom took a deep breath and said, “To work with magic, you must have a certain innate
power, which is very rare among people nowadays. You also have to be able to summon
this power at will. Once it is called upon, you have to use it or let it fade away.
Understood? Now, if you wish to employ the power, you must utter the word or phrase of
the ancient language that describes your intent. For example, if you hadn’t saidbrisingr
yesterday, nothing would have happened.”

“So I’m limited by my knowledge of this language?”

“Exactly,” crowed Brom. “Also, while speaking it, it’s impossible to practice deceit.”

Eragon shook his head. “That can’t be. People always lie. The sounds of the ancient
words can’t stop them from doing that.”

Brom cocked an eyebrow and said, “Fethrblaka, eka weohnata néiat haina ono. Blaka
eom iet lam.” A bird suddenly flitted from a branch and landed on his hand. It trilled
lightly and looked at them with beady eyes. After a moment he said, “Eitha,” and it
fluttered away.

“How did you do that?” asked Eragon in wonder.


“I promised not to harm him. He may not have known exactly what I meant, but in the
language of power, the meaning of my words was evident. The bird trusted me because
he knows what all animals do, that those who speak in that tongue are bound by their
word.”

“And the elves speak this language?”

“Yes.”

“So they never lie?”

“Not quite,” admitted Brom. “They maintain that they don’t, and in a way it’s true, but
they have perfected the art of saying one thing and meaning another. You never know
exactly what their intent is, or if you have fathomed it correctly. Many times they only
reveal part of the truth and withhold the rest. It takes a refined and subtle mind to deal
with their culture.”

Eragon considered that. “What do personal names mean in this language? Do they give
power over people?”

Brom’s eyes brightened with approval. “Yes, they do. Those who speak the language
have two names. The first is for everyday use and has little authority. But the second is
their true name and is shared with only a few trusted people. There was a time when no
one concealed his true name, but this age isn’t as kind. Whoever knows your true name
gains enormous power over you. It’s like putting your life into another person’s hands.
Everyone has a hidden name, but few know what it is.”

“How do you find your true name?” asked Eragon.

“Elves instinctively know theirs. No one else has that gift. The human Riders usually
went on quests to discover it—or found an elf who would tell them, which was rare, for
elves don’t distribute that knowledge freely,” replied Brom.

“I’d like to know mine,” Eragon said wistfully.

Brom’s brow darkened. “Be careful. It can be a terrible knowledge. To know who you are
without any delusions or sympathy is a moment of revelation that no one experiences
unscathed. Some have been driven to madness by that stark reality. Most try to forget it.
But as much as the name will give others power, so you may gain power over yourself, if
the truth doesn’t break you.”

And I’m sure that it would not,stated Saphira.

“I still wish to know,” said Eragon, determined.


“You are not easily dissuaded. That is good, for only the resolute find their identity, but I
cannot help you with this. It is a search that you will have to undertake on your own.”
Brom moved his injured arm and grimaced uncomfortably.

“Why can’t you or I heal that with magic?” asked Eragon.

Brom blinked. “No reason—I just never considered it because it’s beyond my strength.
You could probably do it with the right word, but I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.”

“I could save you a lot of trouble and pain,” protested Eragon.

“I’ll live with it,” said Brom flatly. “Using magic to heal a wound takes just as much
energy as it would to mend on its own. I don’t want you tired for the next few days. You
shouldn’t attempt such a difficult task yet.”

“Still, if it’s possible to fix your arm, could I bring someone back from the dead?”

The question surprised Brom, but he answered quickly, “Remember what I said about
projects that will kill you? That is one of them. Riders were forbidden to try to resurrect
the dead, for their own safety. There is an abyss beyond life where magic means nothing.
If you reach into it, your strength will flee and your soul will fade into darkness. Wizards,
sorcerers, and Riders—all have failed and died on that threshold. Stick with what’s
possible—cuts, bruises, maybe some broken bones—but definitely not dead people.”

Eragon frowned. “This is a lot more complex than I thought.”

“Exactly!” said Brom. “And if you don’t understand what you’re doing, you’ll try
something too big and die.” He twisted in his saddle and swooped down, grabbing a
handful of pebbles from the ground. With effort, he righted himself, then discarded all
but one of the rocks. “See this pebble?”

“Yes.”

“Take it.” Eragon did and stared at the unremarkable lump. It was dull black, smooth, and
as large as the end of his thumb. There were countless stones like it on the trail. “This is
your training.”

Eragon looked back at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Brom impatiently. “That’s why I’m teaching you and not the
other way around. Now stop talking or we’ll never get anywhere. What I want you to do
is lift the rock off your palm and hold it in the air for as long as you can. The words
you’re going to use arestenr reisa . Say them.”

“Stenr reisa.”


“Good. Go ahead and try.”

Eragon focused sourly on the pebble, searching his mind for any hint of the energy that
had burned in him the day before. The stone remained motionless as he stared at it,
sweating and frustrated.How am I supposed to do this? Finally, he crossed his arms and
snapped, “This is impossible.”

“No,” said Brom gruffly. “I’llsay when it’s impossible or not. Fight for it! Don’t give in
this easily. Try again.”

Frowning, Eragon closed his eyes, setting aside all distracting thoughts. He took a deep
breath and reached into the farthest corners of his consciousness, trying to find where his
power resided. Searching, he found only thoughts and memories until he felt something
different—a small bump that was a part of him and yet not of him. Excited, he dug into it,
seeking what it hid. He felt resistance, a barrier in his mind, but knew that the power lay
on the other side. He tried to breach it, but it held firm before his efforts. Growing angry,
Eragon drove into the barrier, ramming against it with all of his might until it shattered
like a thin pane of glass, flooding his mind with a river of light.

“Stenr reisa,” he gasped. The pebble wobbled into the air over his faintly glowing palm.
He struggled to keep it floating, but the power slipped away and faded back behind the
barrier. The pebble dropped to his hand with a soft plop, and his palm returned to normal.
He felt a little tired, but grinned from his success.

“Not bad for your first time,” said Brom.

“Why does my hand do that? It’s like a little lantern.”

“No one’s sure,” Brom admitted. “The Riders always preferred to channel their power
through whichever hand bore the gedwëy ignasia. You can use your other palm, but it
isn’t as easy.” He looked at Eragon for a minute. “I’ll buy you some gloves at the next
town, if it isn’t gutted. You hide the mark pretty well on your own, but we don’t want
anyone to see it by accident. Besides, there may be times when you won’t want the glow
to alert an enemy.”

“Do you have a mark of your own?”

“No. Only Riders have them,” said Brom. “Also, you should know that magic is affected
by distance, just like an arrow or a spear. If you try to lift or move something a mile
away, it’ll take more energy than if you were closer. So if you see enemies racing after
you from a league away, let them approach before using magic. Now, back to work! Try
to lift the pebble again.”

“Again?” asked Eragon weakly, thinking of the effort it had taken to do it just once.

“Yes! And this time be quicker about it.”


They continued with the exercises throughout most of the day. When Eragon finally
stopped, he was tired and ill-tempered. In those hours, he had come to hate the pebble
and everything about it. He started to throw it away, but Brom said, “Don’t. Keep it.”
Eragon glared at him, then reluctantly tucked the stone into a pocket.

“We’re not done yet,” warned Brom, “so don’t get comfortable.” He pointed at a small
plant. “This is calleddelois .” From there on he instructed Eragon in the ancient language,
giving him words to memorize, fromvöndr, a thin, straight stick, to the morning
star,Aiedail .

That evening they sparred around the fire. Though Brom fought with his left hand, his
skill was undiminished.

The days followed the same pattern. First, Eragon struggled to learn the ancient words
and to manipulate the pebble. Then, in the evening, he trained against Brom with the fake
swords. Eragon was in constant discomfort, but he gradually began to change, almost
without noticing. Soon the pebble no longer wobbled when he lifted it. He mastered the
first exercises Brom gave him and undertook harder ones, and his knowledge of the
ancient language grew.

In their sparring, Eragon gained confidence and speed, striking like a snake. His blows
became heavier, and his arm no longer trembled when he warded off attacks. The clashes
lasted longer as he learned how to fend off Brom. Now, when they went to sleep, Eragon
was not the only one with bruises.

Saphira continued to grow as well, but more slowly than before. Her extended flights,
along with periodic hunts, kept her fit and healthy. She was taller than the horses now,
and much longer. Because of her size and the way her scales sparkled, she was altogether
too visible. Brom and Eragon worried about it, but they could not convince her to allow
dirt to obscure her scintillating hide.

They continued south, tracking the Ra’zac. It frustrated Eragon that no matter how fast
they went, the Ra’zac always stayed a few days ahead of them. At times he was ready to
give up, but then they would find some mark or print that would renew his hope.

There were no signs of habitation along the Ninor or in the plains, leaving the three
companions undisturbed as the days slipped by. Finally, they neared Daret, the first
village since Yazuac.

The night before they reached the village, Eragon’s dreams were especially vivid.


He saw Garrow and Roran at home, sitting in the destroyed kitchen. They asked him for
help rebuilding the farm, but he only shook his head with a pang of longing in his heart.
“I’m tracking your killers,” he whispered to his uncle.

Garrow looked at him askance and demanded, “Do I look dead to you?”

“I can’t help you,” said Eragon softly, feeling tears in his eyes.

There was a sudden roar, and Garrow transformed into the Ra’zac. “Then die,” they
hissed, and leapt at Eragon.

He woke up feeling ill and watched the stars slowly turn in the sky.

All will be well, little one,said Saphira gently.

DARET

Daret was on the banks of the Ninor River—as it had to be to survive. The village was
small and wild-looking, without any signs of inhabitants. Eragon and Brom approached it
with great caution. Saphira hid close to the town this time; if trouble arose, she would be
at their sides within seconds.

They rode into Daret, striving to be silent. Brom gripped his sword with his good hand,
eyes flashing everywhere. Eragon kept his bow partially drawn as they passed between
the silent houses, glancing at each other with apprehension.This doesn’t look good,
commented Eragon to Saphira. She did not answer, but he felt her prepare to rush after
them. He looked at the ground and was reassured to see the fresh footprints of
children.But where are they?

Brom stiffened as they entered the center of Daret and found it empty. Wind blew
through the desolate town, and dust devils swirled sporadically. Brom wheeled Snowfire
about. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like the feel of this.” He spurred Snowfire into a
gallop. Eragon followed him, urging Cadoc onward.

They advanced only a few strides before wagons toppled out from behind the houses and
blocked their way. Cadoc snorted and dug in his hooves, sliding to a stop next to
Snowfire. A swarthy man hopped over the wagon and planted himself before them, a
broadsword slung at his side and a drawn bow in his hands. Eragon swung his own bow
up and pointed it at the stranger, who commanded, “Halt! Put your weapons down.
You’re surrounded by sixty archers. They’ll shoot if you move.” As if on cue, a row of
men stood up on the roofs of the surrounding houses.

Stay away, Saphira!cried Eragon.There are too many. If you come, they’ll shoot you out
of the sky. Stay away! She heard, but he was unsure if she would obey. He prepared to
use magic.I’ll have to stop the arrows before they hit me or Brom.


“What do you want?” asked Brom calmly.

“Why have you come here?” demanded the man.

“To buy supplies and hear the news. Nothing more. We’re on the way to my cousin’s
house in Dras-Leona.”

“You’re armed pretty heavily.”

“So are you,” said Brom. “These are dangerous times.”

“True.” The man looked at them carefully. “I don’t think you mean us ill, but we’ve had
too many encounters with Urgals and bandits for me to trust you only on your word.”

“If it doesn’t matter what we say, what happens now?” countered Brom. The men on top
of the houses had not moved. By their very stillness, Eragon was sure that they were
either highly disciplined . . . or frightened for their lives. He hoped it was the latter.

“You say that you only want supplies. Would you agree to stay here while we bring what
you need, then pay us and leave immediately?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said the man, lowering his bow, though he kept it ready. He waved at one of
the archers, who slid to the ground and ran over. “Tell him what you want.”

Brom recited a short list and then added, “Also, if you have a spare pair of gloves that
would fit my nephew, I’d like to buy those too.” The archer nodded and ran off.

“The name’s Trevor,” said the man standing in front of them. “Normally I’d shake your
hand, but under the circumstances, I think I’ll keep my distance. Tell me, where are you
from?”

“North,” said Brom, “but we haven’t lived in any place long enough to call it home. Have
Urgals forced you to take these measures?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, “and worse fiends. Do you have any news from other towns? We
receive word from them rarely, but there have been reports that they are also
beleaguered.”

Brom turned grave. “I wish it wasn’t our lot to bring you these tidings. Nearly a fortnight
ago we passed through Yazuac and found it pillaged. The villagers had been slaughtered
and piled together. We would have tried to give them a decent burial, but two Urgals
attacked us.”


Shocked, Trevor stepped back and looked down with tears in his eyes. “Alas, this is
indeed a dark day. Still, I don’t see how two Urgals could have defeated all of Yazuac.
The people there were good fighters—some were my friends.”

“There were signs that a band of Urgals had ravaged the town,” stated Brom. “I think the
ones we encountered were deserters.”

“How large was the company?”

Brom fiddled with his saddlebags for a minute. “Large enough to wipe out Yazuac, but
small enough to go unnoticed in the countryside. No more than a hundred, and no less
than fifty. If I’m not mistaken, either number would prove fatal to you.” Trevor wearily
agreed. “You should consider leaving,” Brom continued. “This area has become far too
perilous for anyone to live in peace.”

“I know, but the people here refuse to consider moving. This is their home—as well as
mine, though I have only been here a couple years—and they place its worth above their
own lives.” Trevor looked at him seriously. “We have repulsed individual Urgals, and
that has given the townspeople a confidence far beyond their abilities. I fear that we will
all wake up one morning with our throats slashed.”

The archer hurried out of a house with a pile of goods in his arms. He set them next to the
horses, and Brom paid him. As the man left, Brom asked, “Why did they choose you to
defend Daret?”

Trevor shrugged. “I was in the king’s army for some years.”

Brom dug through the items, handed Eragon the pair of gloves, and packed the rest of the
supplies into their saddlebags. Eragon pulled the gloves on, being careful to keep his
palm facing down, and flexed his hands. The leather felt good and strong, though it was
scarred from use. “Well,” said Brom, “as I promised, we will go now.”

Trevor nodded. “When you enter Dras-Leona, would you do us this favor? Alert the
Empire to our plight and that of the other towns. If word of this hasn’t reached the king
by now, it’s cause for worry. And if it has, but he has chosen to do nothing, that too is
cause for worry.”

“We will carry your message. May your swords stay sharp,” said Brom.

“And yours.”

The wagons were pulled out of their way, and they rode from Daret into the trees along
the Ninor River. Eragon sent his thoughts to Saphira.We’re on our way back. Everything
turned out all right. Her only response was simmering anger.


Brom pulled at his beard. “The Empire is in worse condition than I had imagined. When
the traders visited Carvahall, they brought reports of unrest, but I never believed that it
was this widespread. With all these Urgals around, it seems that the Empire itself is under
attack, yet no troops or soldiers have been sent out. It’s as if the king doesn’t care to
defend his domain.”

“It is strange,” agreed Eragon.

Brom ducked under a low-hanging branch. “Did you use any of your powers while we
were in Daret?”

“There was no reason to.”

“Wrong,” corrected Brom. “You could have sensed Trevor’s intentions. Even with my
limited abilities, I was able to do that. If the villagers had been bent on killing us, I
wouldn’t have just sat there. However, I felt there was a reasonable chance of talking our
way out of there, which is what I did.”

“How could I know what Trevor was thinking?” asked Eragon. “Am I supposed to be
able to see into people’s minds?”

“Come now,” chided Brom, “you should know the answer to that. You could have
discovered Trevor’s purpose in the same way that you communicate with Cadoc or
Saphira. The minds of men are not so different from a dragon’s or horse’s. It’s a simple
thing to do, but it’s a power you must use sparingly and with great caution. A person’s
mind is his last sanctuary. You must never violate it unless circumstances force you to.
The Riders had very strict rules regarding this. If they were broken without due cause, the
punishment was severe.”

“And you can do this even though you aren’t a Rider?” asked Eragon.

“As I said before, with the right instruction anyone can talk with their minds, but with
differing amounts of success. Whether it’s magic, though, is hard to tell. Magical abilities
will certainly trigger the talent—or becoming linked with a dragon—but I’ve known
plenty who learned it on their own. Think about it: you can communicate with any
sentient being, though the contact may not be very clear. You could spend the entire day
listening to a bird’s thoughts or understanding how an earthworm feels during a
rainstorm. But I’ve never found birds very interesting. I suggest starting with a cat; they
have unusual personalities.”

Eragon twisted Cadoc’s reins in his hands, considering the implications of what Brom
had said. “But if I can get into someone’s head, doesn’t that mean that others can do the
same to me? How do I know if someone’s prying in my mind? Is there a way to stop
that?”How do I know if Brom can tell what I’m thinking right now?

“Why, yes. Hasn’t Saphira ever blocked you from her mind?”


“Occasionally,” admitted Eragon. “When she took me into the Spine, I couldn’t talk to
her at all. It wasn’t that she was ignoring me; I don’t think she could even hear me. There
were walls around her mind that I couldn’t get through.”

Brom worked on his bandage for a moment, shifting it higher on his arm. “Only a few
people can tell if someone is in their mind, and of those, only a handful could stop you
from entering. It’s a matter of training and of how you think. Because of your magical
power, you’ll always know if someone is in your mind. Once you do, blocking them is a
simple matter of concentrating on one thing to the exclusion of all else. For instance, if
you only think about a brick wall, that’s all the enemy will find in your mind. However, it
takes a huge amount of energy and discipline to block someone for any length of time. If
you’re distracted by even the slightest thing, your wall will waver and your opponent will
slip in through the weakness.”

“How can I learn to do this?” asked Eragon.

“There is only one thing for it: practice, practice, and yet more practice. Picture
something in your mind and hold it there to the exclusion of all else for as long as you
can. It is a very advanced ability; only a handful ever master it,” said Brom.

“I don’t need perfection, just safety.”If I can get into someone’s mind, can I change how
he thinks? Every time I learn something new about magic, I grow more wary of it.

When they reached Saphira, she startled them by thrusting her head at them. The horses
backstepped nervously. Saphira looked Eragon over carefully and gave a low hiss. Her
eyes were flinty. Eragon threw a concerned look at Brom—he had never seen Saphira
this angry—then asked,What’s wrong?

You,she growled.You are the problem.

Eragon frowned and got off Cadoc. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Saphira
swept his legs out from under him with her tail and pinned him with her talons. “What are
you doing?” he yelled, struggling to get up, but she was too strong for him. Brom
watched attentively from Snowfire.

Saphira swung her head over Eragon until they were eye to eye. He squirmed under her
unwavering glare.You! Every time you leave my sight you get into trouble. You’re like a
new hatchling, sticking your nose into everything. And what happens when you stick it
into something that bites back? How will you survive then? I cannot help you when I’m
miles away. I’ve stayed hidden so that no one would see me, but no longer! Not when it
may cost you your life.

I can understand why you’re upset,said Eragon,but I’m much older than you and can take
care of myself. If anything, you’re the one who needs to be protected.


She snarled and snapped her teeth by his ear.Do you really believe that? she
asked.Tomorrow you will ride me—not that pitiful deer-animal you call a horse—or else
I will carry you in my claws. Are you a Dragon Rider or not? Don’t you care for me?

The question burned in Eragon, and he dropped his gaze. He knew she was right, but he
was scared of riding her. Their flights had been the most painful ordeal he had ever
endured.

“Well?” demanded Brom.
“She wants me to ride her tomorrow,” said Eragon lamely.
Brom considered it with twinkling eyes. “Well, you have the saddle. I suppose that if the


two of you stay out of sight, it won’t be a problem.” Saphira switched her gaze to him,


then returned it to Eragon.
“But what if you’re attacked or there’s an accident? I won’t be able to get there in time
and—”


Saphira pressed harder on his chest, stopping his words.Exactly my point, little one.
Brom seemed to hide a smile. “It’s worth the risk. You need to learn how to ride her


anyway. Think about it this way: with you flying ahead and looking at the ground, you’ll
be able to spot any traps, ambushes, or other unwelcome surprises.”
Eragon looked back at Saphira and said,Okay, I’ll do it. But let me up.
Give me your word.
Is that really necessary?he demanded. She blinked.Very well. I give you my word that I


will fly with you tomorrow. Satisfied?
I am content.

Saphira let him up and, with a push of her legs, took off. A small shiver ran through
Eragon as he watched her twist through the air. Grumbling, he returned to Cadoc and
followed Brom.

It was nearly sundown when they made camp. As usual, Eragon dueled with Brom before
dinner. In the midst of the fight, Eragon delivered such a powerful blow that he snapped
both of their sticks like twigs. The pieces whistled into the darkness in a cloud of
splintered fragments. Brom tossed what remained of his stick into the fire and said,
“We’re done with these; throw yours in as well. You have learned well, but we’ve gone
as far as we can with branches. There is nothing more you can gain from them. It is time
for you to use the blade.” He removed Zar’roc from Eragon’s bag and gave it to him.


“We’ll cut each other to ribbons,” protested Eragon.

“Not so. Again you forget magic,” said Brom. He held up his sword and turned it so that
firelight glinted off the edge. He put a finger on either side of the blade and focused
intensely, deepening the lines on his forehead. For a moment nothing happened, then he
uttered, “Gëuloth du knífr!” and a small red spark jumped between his fingers. As it
flickered back and forth, he ran his fingers down the length of the sword. Then he twirled
it and did the same thing on the other side. The spark vanished the moment his fingers
left the metal.

Brom held his hand out, palm up, and slashed it with the sword. Eragon jumped forward
but was too slow to stop him. He was astonished when Brom raised his unharmed hand
with a smile. “What did you do?” asked Eragon.

“Feel the edge,” said Brom. Eragon touched it and felt an invisible surface under his
fingers. The barrier was about a quarter inch wide and very slippery. “Now do the same
on Zar’roc,” instructed Brom. “Your block will be a bit different than mine, but it should
accomplish the same thing.”

He told Eragon how to pronounce the words and coached him through the process. It took
Eragon a few tries, but he soon had Zar’roc’s edge protected. Confident, he took his
fighting stance. Before they started, Brom admonished, “These swords won’t cut us, but
they can still break bones. I would prefer to avoid that, so don’t flail around like you
normally do. A blow to the neck could prove fatal.”

Eragon nodded, then struck without warning. Sparks flew off his blade, and the clash of
metal filled their campsite as Brom parried. The sword felt slow and heavy to Eragon
after fighting with sticks for so long. Unable to move Zar’roc fast enough, he received a
sharp rap on his knee.

They both had large welts when they stopped, Eragon more so than Brom. He marveled
that Zar’roc had not been scratched or dented by the vigorous pounding it had received.

THROUGH A
DRAGON’SEYE

The next morning Eragon woke with stiff limbs and purple bruises. He saw Brom carry
the saddle to Saphira and tried to quell his uneasiness. By the time breakfast was ready,
Brom had strapped the saddle onto Saphira and hung Eragon’s bags from it.

When his bowl was empty, Eragon silently picked up his bow and went to Saphira. Brom
said, “Now remember, grip with your knees, guide her with your thoughts, and stay as
flat as you can on her back. Nothing will go wrong if you don’t panic.” Eragon nodded,
sliding his unstrung bow into its leather tube, and Brom boosted him into the saddle.


Saphira waited impatiently while Eragon tightened the bands around his legs.Are you
ready? she asked.

He sucked in the fresh morning air.No, but let’s do it! She agreed enthusiastically. He
braced himself as she crouched. Her powerful legs surged and the air whipped past him,
snatching his breath away. With three smooth strokes of her wings, she was in the sky,
climbing rapidly.

The last time Eragon had ridden Saphira, every flap of her wings had been strained. Now
she flew steadily and effortlessly. He clenched his arms around her neck as she turned on
edge, banking. The river shrank to a wispy gray line beneath them. Clouds floated around
them.

When they leveled off high above the plains, the trees below were no more than specks.
The air was thin, chilly, and perfectly clear. “This is wonderfu—” His words were lost as
Saphira tilted and rolled completely around. The ground spun in a dizzying circle, and
vertigo clutched Eragon. “Don’t do that!” he cried. “I feel like I’m going to fall off.”

You must become accustomed to it. If I’m attacked in the air, that’s one of the simplest
maneuvers I will do,she replied. He could think of no rebuttal, so he concentrated on
controlling his stomach. Saphira angled into a shallow dive and slowly approached the
ground.

Although Eragon’s stomach lurched with every wobble, he began to enjoy himself. He
relaxed his arms a bit and stretched his neck back, taking in the scenery. Saphira let him
enjoy the sights awhile, then said,Let me show you what flying is really like.

How?he asked.

Relax and do not be afraid,she said.

Her mind tugged at his, pulling him away from his body. Eragon fought for a moment,
then surrendered control. His vision blurred, and he found himself looking through
Saphira’s eyes. Everything was distorted: colors had weird, exotic tints; blues were more
prominent now, while greens and reds were subdued. Eragon tried to turn his head and
body but could not. He felt like a ghost who had slipped out of the ether.

Pure joy radiated from Saphira as she climbed into the sky. She loved this freedom to go
anywhere. When they were high above the ground, she looked back at Eragon. He saw
himself as she did, hanging on to her with a blank look. He could feel her body strain
against the air, using updrafts to rise. All her muscles were like his own. He felt her tail
swinging through the air like a giant rudder to correct her course. It surprised him how
much she depended on it.

Their connection grew stronger until there was no distinction between their identities.
They clasped their wings together and dived straight down, like a spear thrown from on


high. No terror of falling touched Eragon, engulfed as he was in Saphira’s exhilaration.
The air rushed past their face. Their tail whipped in the air, and their joined minds reveled
in the experience.

Even as they plummeted toward the ground, there was no fear of collision. They snapped
open their wings at just the right moment, pulling out of the dive with their combined
strength. Slanting toward the sky, they shot up and continued back over into a giant loop.

As they leveled out, their minds began to diverge, becoming distinct personalities again.
For a split second, Eragon felt both his body and Saphira’s. Then his vision blurred and
he again sat on her back. He gasped and collapsed on the saddle. It was minutes before
his heart stopped hammering and his breathing calmed. Once he had recovered, he
exclaimed,That was incredible! How can you bear to land when you enjoy flying so
much?

I must eat,she said with some amusement.But I am glad that you took pleasure in it.

Those are spare words for such an experience. I’m sorry I haven’t flown with you more; I
never thought it could be like that. Do you always see so much blue?

It is the way I am. We will fly together more often now?

Yes! Every chance we get.

Good,she replied in a contented tone.

They exchanged many thoughts as she flew, talking as they had not for weeks. Saphira
showed Eragon how she used hills and trees to hide and how she could conceal herself in
the shadow of a cloud. They scouted the trail for Brom, which proved to be more arduous
than Eragon expected. They could not see the path unless Saphira flew very close to it, in
which case she risked being detected.

Near midday, an annoying buzz filled Eragon’s ears, and he became aware of a strange
pressure on his mind. He shook his head, trying to get rid of it, but the tension only grew
stronger. Brom’s words about how people could break into others’ minds flashed through
Eragon’s head, and he frantically tried to clear his thoughts. He concentrated on one of
Saphira’s scales and forced himself to ignore everything else. The pressure faded for a
moment and then returned, greater than ever. A sudden gust rocked Saphira, and
Eragon’s concentration slipped. Before he could marshal any defenses, the force broke
through. But instead of the invasive presence of another mind, there were only the
words,What do you think you’re doing? Get down here. I found something important.

Brom?queried Eragon.


Yes,the old man said irritably.Now get that oversized lizard of yours to land. I’m here. . . .
He sent a picture of his location. Eragon quickly told Saphira where to go, and she
banked toward the river below. Meanwhile, he strung his bow and drew several arrows.

If there’s trouble, I’ll be ready for it.

As will I,said Saphira.

When they reached Brom, Eragon saw him standing in a clearing, waving his arms.
Saphira landed, and Eragon jumped off her and looked for danger. The horses were tied
to a tree on the edge of the clearing, but otherwise Brom was alone. Eragon trotted over
and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Brom scratched his chin and muttered a string of curses. “Don’t ever block me out like
that again. It’s hard enough for me to reach you without having to fight to make myself
heard.”

“Sorry.”

He snorted. “I was farther down the river when I noticed that the Ra’zac’s tracks had
ceased. I backtracked until I found where they had disappeared. Look at the ground and
tell me what you see.”

Eragon knelt and examined the dirt and found a confusion of impressions that were
difficult to decipher. Numerous Ra’zac footprints overlapped each other. Eragon guessed
that the tracks were only a few days old. Superimposed over them were long, thick
gouges torn into the ground. They looked familiar, but Eragon could not say why.

He stood, shaking his head. “I don’t have any idea what . . .” Then his eyes fell on
Saphira and he realized what had made the gouges. Every time she took off, her back
claws dug into the ground and ripped it in the same manner. “This doesn’t make any
sense, but the only thing I can think of is that the Ra’zac flew off on dragons. Or else they
got onto giant birds and disappeared into the heavens. Tell me you have a better
explanation.”

Brom shrugged. “I’ve heard reports of the Ra’zac moving from place to place with
incredible speed, but this is the first evidence I’ve had of it. It will be almost impossible
to find them if they have flying steeds. They aren’t dragons—I know that much. A
dragon would never consent to bear a Ra’zac.”

“What do we do? Saphira can’t track them through the sky. Even if she could, we would
leave you far behind.”

“There’s no easy solution to this riddle,” said Brom. “Let’s have lunch while we think on
it. Perhaps inspiration will strike us while we eat.” Eragon glumly went to his bags for
food. They ate in silence, staring at the empty sky.


Once again Eragon thought of home and wondered what Roran was doing. A vision of
the burnt farm appeared before him and grief threatened to overwhelm him.What will I do
if we can’t find the Ra’zac? What is my purpose then? I could return to Carvahall— he
plucked a twig from the ground and snapped it between two fingers—or just travel with
Brom and continue my training.Eragon stared out at the plains, hoping to quiet his
thoughts.

When Brom finished eating, he stood and threw back his hood. “I have considered every
trick I know, every word of power within my grasp, and all the skills we have, but I still
don’t see how we can find the Ra’zac.” Eragon slumped against Saphira in despair.
“Saphira could show herself at some town. That would draw the Ra’zac like flies to
honey. But it would be an extremely risky thing to attempt. The Ra’zac would bring
soldiers with them, and the king might be interested enough to come himself, which
would spell certain death for you and me.”

“So what now?” asked Eragon, throwing his hands up.Do you have any ideas, Saphira?

No.

“That’s up to you,” said Brom. “This is your crusade.”

Eragon ground his teeth angrily and stalked away from Brom and Saphira. Just as he was
about to enter the trees, his foot struck something hard. Lying on the ground was a metal
flask with a leather strap just long enough to hang off someone’s shoulder. A silver
insignia Eragon recognized as the Ra’zac’s symbol was wrought into it.

Excited, he picked up the flask and unscrewed its cap. A cloying smell filled the air—the
same one he had noticed when he found Garrow in the wreckage of their house. He tilted
the flask, and a drop of clear, shiny liquid fell on his finger. Instantly Eragon’s finger
burned as if it were on fire. He yelped and scrubbed his hand on the ground. After a
moment the pain subsided to a dull throbbing. A patch of skin had been eaten away.

Grimacing, he jogged back to Brom. “Look what I found.” Brom took the flask and
examined it, then poured a bit of the liquid into the cap. Eragon started to warn him,
“Watch out, it’ll burn—”

“My skin, I know,” said Brom. “And I suppose you went ahead and poured it all over
your hand. Your finger? Well, at least you showed sense enough not to drink it. Only a
puddle would have been left of you.”

“What is it?” asked Eragon.

“Oil from the petals of the Seithr plant, which grows on a small island in the frigid
northern seas. In its natural state, the oil is used for preserving pearls—it makes them
lustrous and strong. But when specific words are spoken over the oil, along with a blood
sacrifice, it gains the property to eat any flesh. That alone wouldn’t make it special—


there are plenty of acids that can dissolve sinew and bone—except for the fact that it
leaves everything else untouched. You can dip anything into the oil and pull it out
unharmed, unless it was once part of an animal or human. This has made it a weapon of
choice for torture and assassination. It can be stored in wood, slathered on the point of a
spear, or dripped onto sheets so that the next person to touch them will be burned. There
are myriad uses for it, limited only by your ingenuity. Any injury caused by it is always
slow to heal. It’s rather rare and expensive, especially this converted form.”

Eragon remembered the terrible burns that had covered Garrow.That’s what they used on
him, he realized with horror. “I wonder why the Ra’zac left it behind if it’s so valuable.”

“It must have slipped off when they flew away.”

“But why didn’t they come back for it? I doubt that the king will be pleased that they lost
it.”

“No, he won’t,” said Brom, “but he would be even more displeased if they delayed
bringing him news of you. In fact, if the Ra’zac have reached him by now, you can be
sure that the king has learned your name. And that means we will have to be much more
careful when we go into towns. There will be notices and alerts about you posted
throughout the Empire.”

Eragon paused to think. “This oil, how rare is it exactly?”

“Like diamonds in a pig trough,” said Brom. He amended himself after a second,
“Actually, the normal oil is used by jewelers, but only those who can afford it.”

“So there are people who trade in it?”

“Perhaps one, maybe two.”

“Good,” said Eragon. “Now, do the cities along the coast keep shipping records?”

Brom’s eyes brightened. “Of course they do. If we could get to those records, they would
tell us who brought the oil south and where it went from there.”

“And the record of the Empire’s purchase will tell us where the Ra’zac live!” concluded
Eragon. “I don’t know how many people can afford this oil, but it shouldn’t be hard to
figure out which ones aren’t working for the Empire.”

“Genius!” exclaimed Brom, smiling. “I wish I had thought of this years ago; it would
have saved me many headaches. The coast is dotted with numerous cities and towns
where ships can land. I suppose that Teirm would be the place to start, as it controls most
of the trade.” Brom paused. “The last I heard, my old friend Jeod lives there. We haven’t
seen each other for many years, but he might be willing to help us. And because he’s a
merchant, it’s possible that he has access to those records.”


“How do we get to Teirm?”


“We’ll have to go southwest until we reach a high pass in the Spine. Once on the other
side, we can head up the coast to Teirm,” said Brom. A gentle wind pulled at his hair.
“Can we reach the pass within a week?”
“Easily. If we angle away from the Ninor and to our right, we might be able to see the


mountains by tomorrow.”
Eragon went to Saphira and mounted her. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.” When they were


at a good height, he said,I’m going to ride Cadoc tomorrow. Before you protest, know
that I am only doing it because I want to talk with Brom.
You should ride with him every other day. That way you can still receive your instruction,


and I will have time to hunt.
You won’t be troubled by it?
It is necessary.

When they landed for the day, he was pleased to discover that his legs did not hurt. The
saddle had protected him well from Saphira’s scales.

Eragon and Brom had their nightly fight, but it lacked energy, as both were preoccupied
with the day’s events. By the time they finished, Eragon’s arms burned from Zar’roc’s
unaccustomed weight.

ASONG FOR
THEROAD

The next day while they were riding, Eragon asked Brom, “What is the sea like?”

“You must have heard it described before,” said Brom.

“Yes, but what is it really like?”

Brom’s eyes grew hazy, as if he looked upon some hidden scene. “The sea is emotion
incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with words and
rejects all shackles. No matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can’t.
Do you remember what I told you about how the elves came over the sea?”

“Yes.”


“Though they live far from the coast, they retain a great fascination and passion for the
ocean. The sound of crashing waves, the smell of salt air, it affects them deeply and has
inspired many of their loveliest songs. There is one that tells of this love, if you want to
hear it.”

“I would,” said Eragon, interested.

Brom cleared his throat and said, “I will translate it from the ancient language as best I
can. It won’t be perfect, but perhaps it will give you an idea of how the original sounds.”
He pulled Snowfire to a stop and closed his eyes. He was silent for a while, then chanted
softly:

O liquid temptress ’neath the azure sky,
Your gilded expanse calls me, calls me.
For I would sail ever on,
Were it not for the elven maid,
Who calls me, calls me.
She binds my heart with a lily-white tie,
Never to be broken, save by the sea,
Ever to be torn twixt the trees and the waves.


The words echoed hauntingly in Eragon’s head. “There is much more to that song, the
‘Du Silbena Datia.’ I have only recited one of its verses. It tells the sad tale of two lovers,
Acallamh and Nuada, who were separated by longing for the sea. The elves find great
meaning in the story.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Eragon simply.

The Spine was a faint outline on the horizon when they halted that evening.

When they arrived at the Spine’s foothills, they turned and followed the mountains south.
Eragon was glad to be near the mountains again; they placed comforting boundaries on
the world. Three days later they came to a wide road rutted by wagon wheels. “This is the


main road between the capital, Urû’baen, and Teirm,” said Brom. “It’s widely used and a
favorite route for merchants. We have to be more cautious. This isn’t the busiest time of
year, but a few people are bound to be using the road.”

Days passed quickly as they continued to trek along the Spine, searching for the
mountain pass. Eragon could not complain of boredom. When not learning the elven
language, he was either learning how to care for Saphira or practicing magic. Eragon also
learned how to kill game with magic, which saved them time hunting. He would hold a
small rock on his hand and shoot it at his prey. It was impossible to miss. The results of
his efforts roasted over the fire each night. And after dinner, Brom and Eragon would
spar with swords and, occasionally, fists.

The long days and strenuous work stripped Eragon’s body of excess fat. His arms became
corded, and his tanned skin rippled with lean muscles.Everything about me is turning
hard, he thought dryly.

When they finally reached the pass, Eragon saw that a river rushed out of it and cut
across the road. “This is the Toark,” explained Brom. “We’ll follow it all the way to the
sea.”

“How can we,” laughed Eragon, “if it flows out of the Spine inthis direction? It won’t end
up in the ocean unless it doubles back on itself.”

Brom twisted the ring on his finger. “Because in the middle of the mountains rests the
Woadark Lake. A river flows from each end of it and both are called the Toark. We see
the eastward one now. It runs to the south and winds through the brush until it joins
Leona Lake. The other one goes to the sea.”

After two days in the Spine, they came upon a rock ledge from which they could see
clearly out of the mountains. Eragon noticed how the land flattened in the distance, and
he groaned at the leagues they still had to traverse. Brom pointed. “Down there and to the
north lies Teirm. It is an old city. Some say it’s where the elves first landed in Alagaësia.
Its citadel has never fallen, nor have its warriors ever been defeated.” He spurred
Snowfire forward and left the ledge.

It took them until noon the next day to descend through the foothills and arrive at the
other side of the Spine, where the forested land quickly leveled out. Without the
mountains to hide behind, Saphira flew close to the ground, using every hollow and dip
in the land to conceal herself.

Beyond the forest, they noticed a change. The countryside was covered with soft turf and
heather that their feet sank into. Moss clung to every stone and branch and lined the
streams that laced the ground. Pools of mud pocked the road where horses had trampled
the dirt. Before long both Brom and Eragon were splattered with grime.


“Why is everything green?” asked Eragon. “Don’t they have winter here?”

“Yes, but the season is mild. Mist and fog roll in from the sea and keep everything alive.
Some find it to their liking, but to me it’s dreary and depressing.”

When evening fell, they set up camp in the driest spot they could find. As they ate, Brom
commented, “You should continue to ride Cadoc until we reach Teirm. It’s likely that
we’ll meet other travelers now that we are out of the Spine, and it will be better if you are
with me. An old man traveling alone will raise suspicion. With you at my side, no one
will ask questions. Besides, I don’t want to show up at the city and have someone who
saw me on the trail wondering where you suddenly came from.”

“Will we use our own names?” asked Eragon.

Brom thought about it. “We won’t be able to deceive Jeod. He already knows my name,
and I think I trust him with yours. But to everyone else, I will be Neal and you will be my
nephew Evan. If our tongues slip and give us away, it probably won’t make a difference,
but I don’t want our names in anyone’s heads. People have an annoying habit of
remembering things they shouldn’t.”

ATASTE OFTEIRM

After two days of traveling north toward the ocean, Saphira sighted Teirm. A heavy fog
clung to the ground, obscuring Brom’s and Eragon’s sight until a breeze from the west
blew the mist away. Eragon gaped as Teirm was suddenly revealed before them, nestled
by the edge of the shimmering sea, where proud ships were docked with furled sails. The
surf’s dull thunder could be heard in the distance.

The city was contained behind a white wall—a hundred feet tall and thirty feet thick—
with rows of rectangular arrow slits lining it and a walkway on top for soldiers and
watchmen. The wall’s smooth surface was broken by two iron portcullises, one facing the
western sea, the other opening south to the road. Above the wall—and set against its
northeast section—rose a huge citadel built of giant stones and turrets. In the highest
tower, a lighthouse lantern gleamed brilliantly. The castle was the only thing visible over
the fortifications.

Soldiers guarded the southern gate but held their pikes carelessly. “This is our first test,”
said Brom. “Let’s hope they haven’t received reports of us from the Empire and won’t
detain us. Whatever happens, don’t panic or act suspiciously.”

Eragon told Saphira,You should land somewhere now and hide. We’re going in.

Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Again,she said sourly.

I know. But Brom and I do have some advantages most people don’t.We’ll be all right.


If anything happens, I’m going to pin you to my back and never let you off.
I love you too.
Then I will bind you all the tighter.


Eragon and Brom rode toward the gate, trying to appear casual. A yellow pennant bearing
the outline of a roaring lion and an arm holding a lily blossom waved over the entrance.
As they neared the wall, Eragon asked in amazement, “How big is this place?”

“Larger than any city you have ever seen,” said Brom.

At the entrance to Teirm, the guards stood straighter and blocked the gate with their
pikes. “Wha’s yer name?” asked one of them in a bored tone.

“I’m called Neal,” said Brom in a wheezy voice, slouching to one side, an expression of
happy idiocy on his face.

“And who’s th’ other one?” asked the guard.

“Well, I wus gettin’ to that. This’ed be m’nephew Evan. He’s m’sister’s boy, not a . . .”

The guard nodded impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. And yer business here?”

“He’s visitin’ an old friend,” supplied Eragon, dropping his voice into a thick accent.
“I’m along t’ make sure he don’t get lost, if y’ get m’meaning. He ain’t as young as he
used to be—had a bit too much sun when he was young’r. Touch o’ the brain fever, y’
know.” Brom bobbed his head pleasantly.

“Right. Go on through,” said the guard, waving his hand and dropping the pike. “Just
make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“Oh, he won’t,” promised Eragon. He urged Cadoc forward, and they rode into Teirm.
The cobblestone street clacked under the horses’ hooves.

Once they were away from the guards, Brom sat up and growled, “Touch of brain fever,
eh?”

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” teased Eragon.

Brom harrumphed and looked away.

The houses were grim and foreboding. Small, deep windows let in only sparse rays of
light. Narrow doors were recessed into the buildings. The tops of the roofs were flat—
except for metal railings—and all were covered with slate shingles. Eragon noticed that
the houses closest to Teirm’s outer wall were no more than one story, but the buildings


got progressively higher as they went in. Those next to the citadel were tallest of all,
though insignificant compared to the fortress.

“This place looks ready for war,” said Eragon.

Brom nodded. “Teirm has a history of being attacked by pirates, Urgals, and other
enemies. It has long been a center of commerce. There will always be conflict where
riches gather in such abundance. The people here have been forced to take extraordinary
measures to keep themselves from being overrun. It also helps that Galbatorix gives them
soldiers to defend their city.”

“Why are some houses higher than others?”

“Look at the citadel,” said Brom, pointing. “It has an unobstructed view of Teirm. If the
outer wall were breached, archers would be posted on all the roofs. Because the houses in
the front, by the outer wall, are lower, the men farther back could shoot over them
without fear of hitting their comrades. Also, if the enemy were to capture those houses
and put their own archers on them, it would be an easy matter to shoot them down.”

“I’ve never seen a city planned like this,” said Eragon in wonder.

“Yes, but it was only done after Teirm was nearly burned down by a pirate raid,”
commented Brom. As they continued up the street, people gave them searching looks, but
there was not an undue amount of interest.

Compared to our reception at Daret, we’ve been welcomed with open arms. Perhaps
Teirm has escaped notice by the Urgals,thought Eragon. He changed his opinion when a
large man shouldered past them, a sword hanging from his waist. There were other,
subtler signs of adverse times: no children played in the streets, people bore hard
expressions, and many houses were deserted, with weeds growing from cracks in their
stone-covered yards. “It looks like they’ve had trouble,” said Eragon.

“The same as everywhere else,” said Brom grimly. “We have to find Jeod.” They led
their horses across the street to a tavern and tied them to the hitching post. “The Green
Chestnut . . . wonderful,” muttered Brom, looking at the battered sign above them as he
and Eragon entered the building.

The dingy room felt unsafe. A fire smoldered in the fireplace, yet no one bothered to
throw more wood on it. A few lonely people in the corners nursed their drinks with sullen
expressions. A man missing two fingers sat at a far table, eyeing his twitching stumps.
The bartender had a cynical twist to his lips and held a glass in his hand that he kept
polishing, even though it was broken.

Brom leaned against the bar and asked, “Do you know where we can find a man called
Jeod?” Eragon stood at his side, fiddling with the tip of his bow by his waist. It was slung
across his back, but right then he wished that it were in his hands.


The bartender said in an overly loud voice, “Now, why would I know something like
that? Do you think I keep track of the mangy louts in this forsaken place?” Eragon
winced as all eyes turned toward them.

Brom kept talking smoothly. “Could you be enticed to remember?” He slid some coins
onto the bar.

The man brightened and put his glass down. “Could be,” he replied, lowering his voice,
“but my memory takes a great deal of prodding.” Brom’s face soured, but he slid more
coins onto the bar. The bartender sucked on one side of his cheek undecidedly. “All
right,” he finally said, and reached for the coins.

Before he touched them, the man missing two fingers called out from his table, “Gareth,
what in th’ blazes do you think you’re doing? Anyone on the street could tell them where
Jeod lives. What are you charging them for?”

Brom swept the coins back into his purse. Gareth shot a venomous look at the man at the
table, then turned his back on them and picked up the glass again. Brom went to the
stranger and said, “Thanks. The name’s Neal. This is Evan.”

The man raised his mug to them. “Martin, and of course you met Gareth.” His voice was
deep and rough. Martin gestured at some empty chairs. “Go ahead and sit down. I don’t
mind.” Eragon took a chair and arranged it so his back was to the wall and he faced the
door. Martin raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“You just saved me a few crowns,” said Brom.

“My pleasure. Can’t blame Gareth, though—business hasn’t been doing so well lately.”
Martin scratched his chin. “Jeod lives on the west side of town, right next to Angela, the
herbalist. Do you have business with him?”

“Of a sort,” said Brom.

“Well, he won’t be interested in buying anything; he just lost another ship a few days
ago.”

Brom latched onto the news with interest. “What happened? It wasn’t Urgals, was it?”

“No,” said Martin. “They’ve left the area. No one’s seen ’em in almost a year. It seems
they’ve all gone south and east. But they aren’t the problem. See, most of our business is
through sea trade, as I’m sure you know. Well,” he stopped to drink from his mug,
“starting several months ago, someone’s been attacking our ships. It’s not the usual
piracy, because only ships that carry the goods of certain merchants are attacked. Jeod’s
one of ’em. It’s gotten so bad that no captain will accept those merchants’ goods, which
makes life difficult around here. Especially because some of ’em run the largest shipping


businesses in the Empire. They’re being forced to send goods by land. It’s driven costs
painfully high, and their caravans don’t always make it.”

“Do you have any idea who’s responsible? There must be witnesses,” said Brom.

Martin shook his head. “No one survives the attacks. Ships go out, then disappear;
they’re never seen again.” He leaned toward them and said in a confidential tone, “The
sailors are saying that it’s magic.” He nodded and winked, then leaned back.

Brom seemed worried by his words. “What do you think?”

Martin shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know. And I don’t think I will unless I’m
unfortunate enough to be on one of those captured ships.”

“Are you a sailor?” asked Eragon.

“No,” snorted Martin. “Do I look like one? The captains hire me to defend their ships
against pirates. And those thieving scum haven’t been very active lately. Still, it’s a good
job.”

“But a dangerous one,” said Brom. Martin shrugged again and downed the last of his
beer. Brom and Eragon took their leave and headed to the west side of the city, a nicer
section of Teirm. The houses were clean, ornate, and large. The people in the streets wore
expensive finery and walked with authority. Eragon felt conspicuous and out of place.