Eragon Part 2

ANOLDFRIEND

The herbalist’s shop had a cheery sign and was easy to find. A short, curly-haired
woman sat by the door. She was holding a frog in one hand and writing with the other.
Eragon assumed that she was Angela, the herbalist. On either side of the store was a
house. “Which one do you think is his?” he asked.

Brom deliberated, then said, “Let’s find out.” He approached the woman and asked
politely, “Could you tell us which house Jeod lives in?”

“I could.” She continued writing.

“Will you tell us?”

“Yes.” She fell silent, but her pen scribbled faster than ever. The frog on her hand
croaked and looked at them with baleful eyes. Brom and Eragon waited uncomfortably,
but she said no more. Eragon was about to blurt something out when Angela looked up.
“Of course I’ll tell you! All you have to do is ask. Your first question was whether or not
Icould tell you, and the second was if Iwould tell you. But you never actually put the
question to me.”


“Then let me ask properly,” said Brom with a smile. “Which house is Jeod’s? And why
are you holding a frog?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she bantered. “Jeod is on the right. And as for the frog,
he’s actually a toad. I’m trying to prove that toads don’t exist—that there are only frogs.”

“How can toads not exist if you have one on your hand right now?” interrupted Eragon.
“Besides, what good will it do, proving that there are only frogs?”

The woman shook her head vigorously, dark curls bouncing. “No, no, you don’t
understand. If I prove toads don’t exist, then this is a frog and never was a toad.
Therefore, the toad you see now doesn’t exist. And,” she raised a small finger, “if I can
prove there are only frogs, then toads won’t be able to do anything bad—like make teeth
fall out, cause warts, and poison or kill people. Also, witches won’t be able to use any of
their evil spells because, of course, there won’t be any toads around.”

“I see,” said Brom delicately. “It sounds interesting, and I would like to hear more, but
we have to meet Jeod.”

“Of course,” she said, waving her hand and returning to her writing.

Once they were out of the herbalist’s hearing, Eragon said, “She’s crazy!”

“It’s possible,” said Brom, “but you never know. She might discover something useful,
so don’t criticize. Who knows, toads might really be frogs!”

“And my shoes are made of gold,” retorted Eragon.

They stopped before a door with a wrought-iron knocker and marble doorstep. Brom
banged three times. No one answered. Eragon felt slightly foolish. “Maybe this is the
wrong house. Let’s try the other one,” he said. Brom ignored him and knocked again,
pounding loudly.

Again no one answered. Eragon turned away in exasperation, then heard someone run to
the door. A young woman with a pale complexion and light blond hair cracked it open.
Her eyes were puffy; it looked like she had been crying, but her voice was perfectly
steady. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Does Jeod live here?” asked Brom kindly.

The woman dipped her head a little. “Yes, he is my husband. Is he expecting you?” She
opened the door no farther.

“No, but we need to talk with him,” said Brom.

“He is very busy.”


“We have traveled far. It’s very important that we see him.”

Her face hardened. “He is busy.”

Brom bristled, but his voice stayed pleasant. “Since he is unavailable, would you please
give him a message?” Her mouth twitched, but she consented. “Tell him that a friend
from Gil’ead is waiting outside.”

The woman seemed suspicious, but said, “Very well.” She closed the door abruptly.
Eragon heard her footsteps recede.

“That wasn’t very polite.” he commented.

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” snapped Brom. “And don’t say anything. Let me do
the talking.” He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers. Eragon clamped his mouth shut
and looked away.

The door suddenly flew open, and a tall man burst out of the house. His expensive clothes
were rumpled, his gray hair wispy, and he had a mournful face with short eyebrows. A
long scar stretched across his scalp to his temple.

At the sight of them, his eyes grew wide, and he sagged against the doorframe,
speechless. His mouth opened and closed several times like a gasping fish. He asked
softly, in an incredulous voice, “Brom . . . ?”

Brom put a finger to his lips and reached forward, clasping the man’s arm. “It’s good to
see you, Jeod! I’m glad that memory has not failed you, but don’t use that name. It would
be unfortunate if anyone knew I was here.”

Jeod looked around wildly, shock plain on his face. “I thought you were dead,” he
whispered. “What happened? Why haven’t you contacted me before?”

“All things will be explained. Do you have a place where we can talk safely?”

Jeod hesitated, swinging his gaze between Eragon and Brom, face unreadable. Finally he
said, “We can’t talk here, but if you wait a moment, I’ll take you somewhere we can.”

“Fine,” said Brom. Jeod nodded and vanished behind the door.

I hope I can learn something of Brom’s past,thought Eragon.

There was a rapier at Jeod’s side when he reappeared. An embroidered jacket hung
loosely on his shoulders, matched by a plumed hat. Brom cast a critical eye at the finery,
and Jeod shrugged self-consciously.


He took them through Teirm toward the citadel. Eragon led the horses behind the two
men. Jeod gestured at their destination. “Risthart, the lord of Teirm, has decreed that all
the business owners must have their headquarters in his castle. Even though most of us
conduct our business elsewhere, we still have to rent rooms there. It’s nonsense, but we
abide by it anyway to keep him calm. We’ll be free of eavesdroppers in there; the walls
are thick.”

They went through the fortress’s main gate and into the keep. Jeod strode to a side door
and pointed to an iron ring. “You can tie the horses there. No one will bother them.”
When Snowfire and Cadoc were safely tethered, he opened the door with an iron key and
let them inside.

Within was a long, empty hallway lit by torches set into the walls. Eragon was surprised
by how cold and damp it was. When he touched the wall, his fingers slid over a layer of
slime. He shivered.

Jeod snatched a torch from its bracket and led them down the hall. They stopped before a
heavy, wooden door. He unlocked it and ushered them into a room dominated by a
bearskin rug laden with stuffed chairs. Bookshelves stacked with leather-bound tomes
covered the walls.

Jeod piled wood in the fireplace, then thrust the torch under it. The fire quickly roared.
“You, old man, have some explaining to do.”

Brom’s face crinkled with a smile. “Who are you calling an old man? The last time I saw
you there was no gray in your hair. Now it looks like it’s in the final stages of
decomposition.”

“And you look the same as you did nearly twenty years ago. Time seems to have
preserved you as a crotchety old man just to inflict wisdom upon each new generation.
Enough of this! Get on with the story. That’s always what you were good at,” said Jeod
impatiently. Eragon’s ears pricked up, and he waited eagerly to hear what Brom would
say.

Brom relaxed into a chair and pulled out his pipe. He slowly blew a smoke ring that
turned green, darted into the fireplace, then flew up the chimney. “Do you remember
what we were doing in Gil’ead?”

“Yes, of course,” said Jeod. “That sort of thing is hard to forget.”

“An understatement, but true nevertheless,” said Brom dryly. “When we were . . .
separated, I couldn’t find you. In the midst of the turmoil I stumbled into a small room.
There wasn’t anything extraordinary in it—just crates and boxes—but out of curiosity, I
rummaged around anyway. Fortune smiled on me that hour, for I found what we had
been searching for.” An expression of shock ran over Jeod’s face. “Once it was in my
hands, I couldn’t wait for you. At any second I might have been discovered, and all lost.


Disguising myself as best I could, I fled the city and ran to the . . .” Brom hesitated and
glanced at Eragon, then said, “ran to our friends. They stored it in a vault, for
safekeeping, and made me promise to care for whomever received it. Until the day when
my skills would be needed, I had to disappear. No one could know that I was alive—not
even you—though it grieved me to pain you unnecessarily. So I went north and hid in
Carvahall.”

Eragon clenched his jaw, infuriated that Brom was deliberately keeping him in the dark.

Jeod frowned and asked, “Then our . . . friends knew that you were alive all along?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I suppose the ruse was unavoidable, though I wish they had told me. Isn’t
Carvahall farther north, on the other side of the Spine?” Brom inclined his head. For the
first time, Jeod inspected Eragon. His gray eyes took in every detail. He raised his
eyebrows and said, “I assume, then, that you are fulfilling your duty.”

Brom shook his head. “No, it’s not that simple. It was stolen a while ago—at least that’s
what I presume, for I haven’t received word from our friends, and I suspect their
messengers were waylaid—so I decided to find out what I could. Eragon happened to be
traveling in the same direction. We have stayed together for a time now.”

Jeod looked puzzled. “But if they haven’t sent any messages, how could you know that it
was—”

Brom overrode him quickly, saying, “Eragon’s uncle was brutally killed by the Ra’zac.
They burned his home and nearly caught him in the process. He deserves revenge, but
they have left us without a trail to follow, and we need help finding them.”

Jeod’s face cleared. “I see. . . . But why have you come here? I don’t know where the
Ra’zac might be hiding, and anyone who does won’t tell you.”

Standing, Brom reached into his robe and pulled out the Ra’zac’s flask. He tossed it to
Jeod. “There’s Seithr oil in there—the dangerous kind. The Ra’zac were carrying it. They
lost it by the trail, and we happened to find it. We need to see Teirm’s shipping records so
we can trace the Empire’s purchases of the oil. That should tell us where the Ra’zac’s lair
is.”

Lines appeared on Jeod’s face as he thought. He pointed at the books on the shelves. “Do
you see those? They are all records from my business.One business. You have gotten
yourself into a project that could take months. There is another, greater problem. The
records you seek are held in this castle, but only Brand, Risthart’s administrator of trade,
sees them on a regular basis. Traders such as myself aren’t allowed to handle them. They
fear that we will falsify the results, thus cheating the Empire of its precious taxes.”


“I can deal with that when the time comes,” said Brom. “But we need a few days of rest
before we can think about proceeding.”

Jeod smiled. “It seems that it is my turn to help you. My house is yours, of course. Do
you have another name while you are here?”

“Yes,” said Brom, “I’m Neal, and the boy is Evan.”

“Eragon,” said Jeod thoughtfully. “You have a unique name. Few have ever been named
after the first Rider. In my life I’ve read about only three people who were called such.”
Eragon was startled that Jeod knew the origin of his name.

Brom looked at Eragon. “Could you go check on the horses and make sure they’re all
right? I don’t think I tied Snowfire to the ring tightly enough.”

They’re trying to hide something from me. The moment I leave they’re going to talk about
it.Eragon shoved himself out of the chair and left the room, slamming the door shut.
Snowfire had not moved; the knot that held him was fine. Scratching the horses’ necks,
Eragon leaned sullenly against the castle wall.

It’s not fair,he complained to himself.If only I could hear what they are saying. He jolted
upright, electrified. Brom had once taught him some words that would enhance his
hearing.Keen ears aren’t exactly what I want, but I should be able to make the words
work. After all, look what I could do with brisingr!

He concentrated intensely and reached for his power. Once it was within his grasp, he
said, “Thverr stenr un atra eka hórna!” and imbued the words with his will. As the power
rushed out of him, he heard a faint whisper in his ears, but nothing more. Disappointed,
he sank back, then started as Jeod said, “—and I’ve been doing that for almost eight years
now.”

Eragon looked around. No one was there except for a few guards standing against the far
wall of the keep. Grinning, he sat on the courtyard and closed his eyes.

“I never expected you to become a merchant,” said Brom. “After all the time you spent in
books. And finding the passageway in that manner! What made you take up trading
instead of remaining a scholar?”

“After Gil’ead, I didn’t have much taste for sitting in musty rooms and reading scrolls. I
decided to help Ajihad as best I could, but I’m no warrior. My father was a merchant as
well—you may remember that. He helped me get started. However, the bulk of my
business is nothing more than a front to get goods into Surda.”

“But I take it that things have been going badly,” said Brom.


“Yes, none of the shipments have gotten through lately, and Tronjheim is running low on
supplies. Somehow the Empire—at least I think it’s them—has discovered those of us
who have been helping to support Tronjheim. But I’m still not convinced that it’s the
Empire. No one sees any soldiers. I don’t understand it. Perhaps Galbatorix hired
mercenaries to harass us.”

“I heard that you lost a ship recently.”

“The last one I owned,” answered Jeod bitterly. “Every man on it was loyal and brave. I
doubt I’ll ever see them again. . . . The only option I have left is to send caravans to Surda
or Gil’ead—which I know won’t get there, no matter how many guards I hire—or charter
someone else’s ship to carry the goods. But no one will take them now.”

“How many merchants have been helping you?” asked Brom.

“Oh, a good number up and down the seaboard. All of them have been plagued by the
same troubles. I know what you are thinking; I’ve pondered it many a night myself, but I
cannot bear the thought of a traitor with that much knowledge and power. If there is one,
we’re all in jeopardy. You should return to Tronjheim.”

“And take Eragon there?” interrupted Brom. “They’d tear him apart. It’s the worst place
he could be right now. Maybe in a few months or, even better, a year. Can you imagine
how the dwarves will react? Everyone will be trying to influence him, especially
Islanzadi. He and Saphira won’t be safe in Tronjheim until I at least get them through
tuatha du orothrim.”

Dwarves!thought Eragon excitedly.Where is this Tronjheim? And why did he tell Jeod
about Saphira? He shouldn’t have done that without asking me!

“Still, I have a feeling that they are in need of your power and wisdom.”
“Wisdom,” snorted Brom. “I’m just what you said earlier—a crotchety old man.”
“Many would disagree.”
“Let them. I’ve no need to explain myself. No, Ajihad will have to get along without me.


What I’m doing now is much more important. But the prospect of a traitor raises
troubling questions. I wonder if that’s how the Empire knew where to be. . . .” His voice
trailed off.

“And I wonder why I haven’t been contacted about this,” said Jeod.

“Maybe they tried. But if there’s a traitor . . .” Brom paused. “I have to send word to
Ajihad. Do you have a messenger you can trust?”
“I think so,” said Jeod. “It depends on where he would have to go.”



“I don’t know,” said Brom. “I’ve been isolated so long, my contacts have probably died
or forgotten me. Could you send him to whoever receives your shipments?”

“Yes, but it’ll be risky.”

“What isn’t these days? How soon can he leave?”

“He can go in the morning. I’ll send him to Gil’ead. It will be faster,” said Jeod. “What
can he take to convince Ajihad the message comes from you?”

“Here, give your man my ring. And tell him that if he loses it, I’ll personally tear his liver
out. It was given to me by the queen.”

“Aren’t you cheery,” commented Jeod.

Brom grunted. After a long silence he said, “We’d better go out and join Eragon. I get
worried when he’s alone. That boy has an unnatural propensity for being wherever
there’s trouble.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really.”

Eragon heard chairs being pushed back. He quickly pulled his mind away and opened his
eyes. “What’s going on?” he muttered to himself.Jeod and other traders are in trouble
for helping people the Empire doesn’t favor. Brom found something in Gil’ead and went
to Carvahall to hide. What could be so important that he would let his own friend think
he was dead for nearly twenty years? He mentioned a queen—when there aren’t any
queens in the known kingdoms—and dwarves, who, as he himself told me, disappeared
underground long ago.

He wanted answers! But he would not confront Brom now and risk jeopardizing their
mission. No, he would wait until they left Teirm, and then he would persist until the old
man explained his secrets. Eragon’s thoughts were still whirling when the door opened.

“Were the horses all right?” asked Brom.

“Fine,” said Eragon. They untied the horses and left the castle.

As they reentered the main body of Teirm, Brom said, “So, Jeod, you finally got married.
And,” he winked slyly, “to a lovely young woman. Congratulations.”

Jeod did not seem happy with the compliment. He hunched his shoulders and stared
down at the street. “Whether congratulations are in order is debatable right now. Helen
isn’t very happy.”


“Why? What does she want?” asked Brom.

“The usual,” said Jeod with a resigned shrug. “A good home, happy children, food on the
table, and pleasant company. The problem is that she comes from a wealthy family; her
father has invested heavily in my business. If I keep suffering these losses, there won’t be
enough money for her to live the way she’s used to.”

Jeod continued, “But please, my troubles are not your troubles. A host should never
bother his guests with his own concerns. While you are in my house, I will let nothing
more than an over-full stomach disturb you.”

“Thank you,” said Brom. “We appreciate the hospitality. Our travels have long been
without comforts of any kind. Do you happen to know where we could find an
inexpensive shop? All this riding has worn out our clothes.”

“Of course. That’s my job,” said Jeod, lightening up. He talked eagerly about prices and
stores until his house was in sight. Then he asked, “Would you mind if we went
somewhere else to eat? It might be awkward if you came in right now.”

“Whatever makes you feel comfortable,” said Brom.

Jeod looked relieved. “Thanks. Let’s leave your horses in my stable.”

They did as he suggested, then followed him to a large tavern. Unlike the Green
Chestnut, this one was loud, clean, and full of boisterous people. When the main course
arrived—a stuffed suckling pig—Eragon eagerly dug into the meat, but he especially
savored the potatoes, carrots, turnips, and sweet apples that accompanied it. It had been a
long time since he had eaten much more than wild game.

They lingered over the meal for hours as Brom and Jeod swapped stories. Eragon did not
mind. He was warm, a lively tune jangled in the background, and there was more than
enough food. The spirited tavern babble fell pleasantly on his ears.

When they finally exited the tavern, the sun was nearing the horizon. “You two go ahead;
I have to check on something,” Eragon said. He wanted to see Saphira and make sure that
she was safely hidden.

Brom agreed absently. “Be careful. Don’t take too long.”

“Wait,” said Jeod. “Are you going outside Teirm?” Eragon hesitated, then reluctantly
nodded. “Make sure you’re inside the walls before dark. The gates close then, and the
guards won’t let you back in until morning.”

“I won’t be late,” promised Eragon. He turned around and loped down a side street,
toward Teirm’s outer wall. Once out of the city, he breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh
air.Saphira! he called.Where are you? She guided him off the road, to the base of a


mossy cliff surrounded by maples. He saw her head poke out of the trees on the top and
waved.How am I supposed to get up there?
If you find a clearing, I’ll come down and get you.
No,he said, eyeing the cliff,that won’t be necessary.I’ll just climb up.
It’s too dangerous.
And you worry too much. Let me have some fun.


Eragon pulled off his gloves and started climbing. He relished the physical challenge.
There were plenty of handholds, so the ascent was easy. He was soon high above the
trees. Halfway up, he stopped on a ledge to catch his breath.

Once his strength returned, he stretched up for the next handhold, but his arm was not
long enough. Stymied, he searched for another crevice or ridge to grasp. There was none.
He tried backing down, but his legs could not reach his last foothold. Saphira watched
with unblinking eyes. He gave up and said,I could use some help.

This is your own fault.

Yes! I know. Are you going to get me down or not?

If I weren’t around, you would be in a very bad situation.

Eragon rolled his eyes.You don’t have to tell me.

You’re right. After all, how can a mere dragon expect to tell a man like yourself what to
do? In fact, everyone should stand in awe of your brilliance of finding the only dead end.
Why, if you had started a few feet in either direction, the path to the top would have been
clear.She cocked her head at him, eyes bright.

All right! I made a mistake. Now can you please get me out of here?he pleaded. She
pulled her head back from the edge of the cliff. After a moment he called, “Saphira?”
Above him were only swaying trees. “Saphira! Come back!” he roared.

With a loud crash Saphira barreled off the top of the cliff, flipping around in midair. She
floated down to Eragon like a huge bat and grabbed his shirt with her claws, scratching
his back. He let go of the rocks as she yanked him up in the air. After a brief flight, she
set him down gently on the top of the cliff and tugged her claws out of his shirt.

Foolishness,said Saphira gently.


Eragon looked away, studying the landscape. The cliff provided a wonderful view of
their surroundings, especially the foaming sea, as well as protection against unwelcome
eyes. Only birds would see Saphira here. It was an ideal location.

Is Brom’s friend trustworthy?she asked.

I don’t know.Eragon proceeded to recount the day’s events.There are forces circling us
that we aren’t aware of. Sometimes I wonder if we can ever understand the true motives
of the people around us. They all seem to have secrets.

It is the way of the world. Ignore all the schemes and trust in the nature of each person.
Brom is good. He means us no harm. We don’t have to fear his plans.

I hope so,he said, looking down at his hands.

This finding of the Ra’zac through writing is a strange way of tracking,she
remarked.Would there be a way to use magic to see the records without being inside the
room?

I’m not sure. You would have to combine the word forseeingwithdistance. . . or
maybelightanddistance.Either way, it seems rather difficult. I’ll ask Brom.

That would be wise.They lapsed into tranquil silence.

You know, we may have to stay here awhile.

Saphira’s answer held a hard edge.And as always, I will be left to wait outside.

That is not how I want it. Soon enough we will travel together again.

May that day come quickly.

Eragon smiled and hugged her. He noticed then how rapidly the light was fading.I have
to go now, before I’m locked out of Teirm. Hunt tomorrow, and I will see you in the
evening.

She spread her wings.Come, I will take you down. He got onto her scaly back and held on
tightly as she launched off the cliff, glided over the trees, then landed on a knoll. Eragon
thanked her and ran back to Teirm.

He came into sight of the portcullis just as it was beginning to lower. Calling for them to
wait, he put on a burst of speed and slipped inside seconds before the gateway slammed
closed. “Ya cut that a little close,” observed one of the guards.

“It won’t happen again,” assured Eragon, bending over to catch his breath. He wound his
way through the darkened city to Jeod’s house. A lantern hung outside like a beacon.


A plump butler answered his knock and ushered him inside without a word. Tapestries
covered the stone walls. Elaborate rugs dotted the polished wood floor, which glowed
with the light from three gold candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Smoke drifted
through the air and collected above.

“This way, sir. Your friend is in the study.”

They passed scores of doorways until the butler opened one to reveal a study. Books
covered the room’s walls. But unlike those in Jeod’s office, these came in every size and
shape. A fireplace filled with blazing logs warmed the room. Brom and Jeod sat before an
oval writing desk, talking amiably. Brom raised his pipe and said in a jovial voice, “Ah,
here you are. We were getting worried about you. How was your walk?”

I wonder what put him in such a good mood? Why doesn’t he just come out and ask how
Saphira is?“Pleasant, but the guards almost locked me outside the city. And Teirm is big.
I had trouble finding this house.”

Jeod chuckled. “When you have seen Dras-Leona, Gil’ead, or even Kuasta, you won’t be
so easily impressed by this small ocean city. I like it here, though. When it’s not raining,
Teirm is really quite beautiful.”

Eragon turned to Brom. “Do you have any idea how long we’ll be here?”

Brom spread his palms upward. “That’s hard to tell. It depends on whether we can get to
the records and how long it will take us to find what we need. We’ll all have to help; it
will be a huge job. I’ll talk with Brand tomorrow and see if he’ll let us examine the
records.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to help,” Eragon said, shifting uneasily.

“Why not?” asked Brom. “There will be plenty of work for you.”

Eragon lowered his head. “I can’t read.”

Brom straightened with disbelief. “You mean Garrow never taught you?”

“He knew how to read?” asked Eragon, puzzled. Jeod watched them with interest.

“Of course he did,” snorted Brom. “The proud fool—what was he thinking? I should
have realized that he wouldn’t have taught you. He probably considered it an unnecessary
luxury.” Brom scowled and pulled at his beard angrily. “This sets my plans back, but not
irreparably. I’ll just have to teach you how to read. It won’t take long if you put your
mind to it.”

Eragon winced. Brom’s lessons were usually intense and brutally direct.How much more
can I learn at one time? “I suppose it’s necessary,” he said ruefully.


“You’ll enjoy it. There is much you can learn from books and scrolls,” said Jeod. He
gestured at the walls. “These books are my friends, my companions. They make me laugh
and cry and find meaning in life.”

“It sounds intriguing,” admitted Eragon.

“Always the scholar, aren’t you?” asked Brom.

Jeod shrugged. “Not anymore. I’m afraid I’ve degenerated into a bibliophile.”

“A what?” asked Eragon.

“One who loves books,” explained Jeod, and resumed conversing with Brom. Bored,
Eragon scanned the shelves. An elegant book set with gold studs caught his attention. He
pulled it off the shelf and stared at it curiously.

It was bound in black leather carved with mysterious runes. Eragon ran his fingers over
the cover and savored its cool smoothness. The letters inside were printed with a reddish
glossy ink. He let the pages slip past his fingers. A column of script, set off from the
regular lettering, caught his eye. The words were long and flowing, full of graceful lines
and sharp points.

Eragon took the book to Brom. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to the strange writing.

Brom looked at the page closely and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Jeod, you’ve
expanded your collection. Where did you get this? I haven’t seen one in ages.”

Jeod strained his neck to see the book. “Ah yes, theDomia abr Wyrda. A man came
through here a few years ago and tried to sell it to a trader down by the wharves.
Fortunately, I happened to be there and was able to save the book, along with his neck.
He didn’t have a clue what it was.”

“It’s odd, Eragon, that you should pick up this book, theDominance of Fate, ” said Brom.
“Of all the items in this house, it’s probably worth the most. It details a complete history
of Alagaësia—starting long before the elves landed here and ending a few decades ago.
The book is very rare and is the best of its kind. When it was written, the Empire decried
it as blasphemy and burned the author, Heslant the Monk. I didn’t think any copies still
existed. The lettering you asked about is from the ancient language.”

“What does it say?” asked Eragon.

It took Brom a moment to read the writing. “It’s part of an elven poem that tells of the
years they fought the dragons. This excerpt describes one of their kings, Ceranthor, as he
rides into battle. The elves love this poem and tell it regularly—though you need three
days to do it properly—so that they won’t repeat the mistakes of the past. At times they
sing it so beautifully it seems the very rocks will cry.”


Eragon returned to his chair, holding the book gently.It’s amazing that a man who is dead
can talk to people through these pages. As long as this book survives, his ideas live. I
wonder if it contains any information about the Ra’zac?

He browsed through the book while Brom and Jeod spoke. Hours passed, and Eragon
began to drowse. Out of pity for his exhaustion, Jeod bid them good night. “The butler
will show you to your rooms.”

On the way upstairs, the servant said, “If you need assistance, use the bellpull next to the
bed.” He stopped before a cluster of three doors, bowed, then backed away.

As Brom entered the room on the right, Eragon asked, “Can I talk to you?”

“You just did, but come in anyway.”

Eragon closed the door behind himself. “Saphira and I had an idea. Is there—”

Brom stopped him with a raised hand and pulled the curtains shut over the window.
“When you talk of such things, you would do well to make sure that no unwelcome ears
are present.”

“Sorry,” said Eragon, berating himself for the slip. “Anyway, is it possible to conjure up
an image of something that you can’t see?”

Brom sat on the edge of his bed. “What you are talking about is called scrying. It is quite
possible and extremely helpful in some situations, but it has a major drawback. You can
only observe people, places, and things that you’ve already seen. If you were to scry the
Ra’zac, you’d see them all right, but not their surroundings. There are other problems as
well. Let’s say that you wanted to view a page in a book, one that you’d already seen.
You could only see the page if the book were open to it. If the book were closed when
you tried this, the page would appear completely black.”

“Why can’t you view objects that you haven’t seen?” asked Eragon. Even with those
limitations, he realized, scrying could be very useful.I wonder if I could view something
leagues away and use magic to affect what was happening there?

“Because,” said Brom patiently, “to scry, you have to know what you’re looking at and
where to direct your power. Even if a stranger was described to you, it would still be nigh
impossible to view him, not to mention the ground and whatever else might be around
him. You have to knowwhat you’re going to scry before youcan scry it. Does that answer
your question?”

Eragon thought for a moment. “But how is it done? Do you conjure up the image in thin
air?”


“Not usually,” said Brom, shaking his white head. “That takes more energy than
projecting it onto a reflective surface like a pool of water or a mirror. Some Riders used
to travel everywhere they could, trying to see as much as possible. Then, whenever war
or some other calamity occurred, they would be able to view events throughout
Alagaësia.”

“May I try it?” asked Eragon.

Brom looked at him carefully. “No, not now. You’re tired, and scrying takes lots of
strength. I will tell you the words, but you must promise not to attempt it tonight. And I’d
rather you wait until we leave Teirm; I have more to teach you.”

Eragon smiled. “I promise.”

“Very well.” Brom bent over and very quietly whispered, “Draumr kópa” into Eragon’s
ear.

Eragon took a moment to memorize the words. “Maybe after we’ve left Teirm, I can scry
Roran. I would like to know how he’s doing. I’m afraid that the Ra’zac might go after
him.”

“I don’t mean to frighten you, but that’s a distinct possibility,” said Brom. “Although
Roran was gone most of the time the Ra’zac were in Carvahall, I’m sure that they asked
questions about him. Who knows, they may have even met him while they were in
Therinsford. Either way, I doubt their curiosity is sated. You’re on the loose, after all, and
the king is probably threatening them with terrible punishment if you aren’t found. If they
get frustrated enough, they’ll go back and interrogate Roran. It’s only a matter of time.”

“If that’s true, then the only way to keep Roran safe is to let the Ra’zac know where I am
so that they’ll come after me instead of him.”

“No, that won’t work either. You’re not thinking,” admonished Brom. “If you can’t
understand your enemies, how can you expect to anticipate them? Even if you exposed
your location, the Ra’zac wouldstill chase Roran. Do you know why?”

Eragon straightened and tried to consider every possibility. “Well, if I stay in hiding long
enough, they might get frustrated and capture Roran to force me to reveal myself. If that
didn’t work, they’d kill him just to hurt me. Also, if I become a public enemy of the
Empire, they might use him as bait to catch me. And if I met with Roran and they found
out about it, they would torture him to find out where I was.”

“Very good. You figured that out quite nicely,” said Brom.

“But what’s the solution? I can’t let him be killed!”


Brom clasped his hands loosely. “The solution is quite obvious. Roran is going to have to
learn how to defend himself. That may sound hard-hearted, but as you pointed out, you
cannot risk meeting with him. You may not remember this—you were half delirious at
the time—but when we left Carvahall, I told you that I had left a warning letter for Roran
so he won’t be totally unprepared for danger. If he has any sense at all, when the Ra’zac
show up in Carvahall again, he’ll take my advice and flee.”

“I don’t like this,” said Eragon unhappily.

“Ah, but you forget something.”

“What?” he demanded.

“There is some good in all of this. The king cannot afford to have a Rider roaming around
that he does not control. Galbatorix is the only known Rider alive besides yourself, but he
would like another one under his command. Before he tries to kill you or Roran, he will
offer you the chance to serve him. Unfortunately, if he ever gets close enough to make
that proposition, it will be far too late for you to refuse and still live.”

“You call that some good!”

“It’s all that’s protecting Roran. As long as the king doesn’t know which side you’ve
chosen, he won’t risk alienating you by harming your cousin. Keep that firmly in mind.
The Ra’zac killed Garrow, but I think it was an ill-considered decision on their part.
From what I know of Galbatorix, he would not have approved it unless he gained
something from it.”

“And how will I be able to deny the king’s wishes when he is threatening me with
death?” asked Eragon sharply.

Brom sighed. He went to his nightstand and dipped his fingers in a basin of rose water.
“Galbatorix wants your willing cooperation. Without that, you’re worse than useless to
him. So the question becomes, If you are ever faced with this choice, are you willing to
die for what you believe in? For that is the only way you will deny him.”

The question hung in the air.

Brom finally said, “It’s a difficult question and not one you can answer until you’re faced
with it. Keep in mind that many people have died for their beliefs; it’s actually quite
common. The real courage is in living and suffering for what you believe.”

THEWITCH AND
THEWERECAT


It was late in the morning when Eragon woke. He dressed, washed his face in the basin,
then held the mirror up and brushed his hair into place. Something about his reflection
made him stop and look closer. His face had changed since he had run out of Carvahall
just a short while ago. Any baby fat was gone now, stripped away by traveling, sparring,
and training. His cheekbones were more prominent, and the line of his jaw was sharper.
There was a slight cast to his eyes that, when he looked closely, gave his face a wild,
alien appearance. He held the mirror at arm’s length, and his face resumed its normal
semblance—but it still did not seem quite his own.

A little disturbed, he slung his bow and quiver across his back, then left the room. Before
he had reached the end of the hall, the butler caught up with him and said, “Sir, Neal left
with my master for the castle earlier. He said that you could do whatever you want today
because he will not return until this evening.”

Eragon thanked him for the message, then eagerly began exploring Teirm. For hours he
wandered the streets, entering every shop that struck his fancy and chatting with various
people. Eventually he was forced back to Jeod’s by his empty stomach and lack of
money.

When he reached the street where the merchant lived, he stopped at the herbalist’s shop
next door. It was an unusual place for a store. The other shops were down by the city
wall, not crammed between expensive houses. He tried to look in the windows, but they
were covered with a thick layer of crawling plants on the interior. Curious, he went
inside.

At first he saw nothing because the store was so dark, but then his eyes adjusted to the
faint greenish light that filtered through the windows. A colorful bird with wide tail
feathers and a sharp, powerful beak looked at Eragon inquisitively from a cage near the
window. The walls were covered with plants; vines clung to the ceiling, obscuring all but
an old chandelier, and on the floor was a large pot with a yellow flower. A collection of
mortars, pestles, metal bowls, and a clear crystal ball the size of Eragon’s head rested on
a long counter.

He walked to the counter, carefully stepping around complex machines, crates of rocks,
piles of scrolls, and other objects he did not recognize. The wall behind the counter was
covered with drawers of every size. Some of them were no larger than his smallest finger,
while others were big enough for a barrel. There was a foot-wide gap in the shelves far
above.

A pair of red eyes suddenly flashed from the dark space, and a large, fierce cat leapt onto
the counter. It had a lean body with powerful shoulders and oversized paws. A shaggy
mane surrounded its angular face; its ears were tipped with black tufts. White fangs
curved down over its jaw. Altogether, it did not look like any cat Eragon had ever seen. It
inspected him with shrewd eyes, then flicked its tail dismissively.


On a whim, Eragon reached out with his mind and touched the cat’s consciousness.
Gently, he prodded it with his thoughts, trying to make it understand that he was a friend.

You don’t have to do that.

Eragon looked around in alarm. The cat ignored him and licked a paw.Saphira? Where
are you? he asked. No one answered. Puzzled, he leaned against the counter and reached
for what looked like a wood rod.

That wouldn’t be wise.

Stop playing games, Saphira,he snapped, then picked up the rod. A shock of electricity
exploded through his body, and he fell to the floor, writhing. The pain slowly faded,
leaving him gasping for air. The cat jumped down and looked at him.

You aren’t very smart for a Dragon Rider. I did warn you.

You said that!exclaimed Eragon. The cat yawned, then stretched and sauntered across the
floor, weaving its way between objects.

Who else?

But you’re just a cat!he objected.

The cat yowled and stalked back to him. It jumped on his chest and crouched there,
looking down at him with gleaming eyes. Eragon tried to sit up, but it growled, showing
its fangs.Do I look like other cats?

No . . .

Then what makes you think I am one?Eragon started to say something, but the creature
dug its claws into his chest.Obviously your education has been neglected. I—to correct
your mistake—am a werecat. There aren’t many of us left, but I think even a farm boy
should have heard of us.

I didn’t know you were real,said Eragon, fascinated. A werecat! He was indeed fortunate.
They were always flitting around the edges of stories, keeping to themselves and
occasionally giving advice. If the legends were true, they had magical powers, lived
longer than humans, and usually knew more than they told.

The werecat blinked lazily.Knowing is independent of being. I did not know you existed
before you bumbled in here and ruined my nap. Yet that doesn’t mean you weren’t real
before you woke me.

Eragon was lost by its reasoning.I’m sorry I disturbed you.


I was getting up anyway,it said. It leapt back onto the counter and licked its paw.If I were
you, I wouldn’t hold on to that rod much longer. It’s going to shock you again in a few
seconds.

He hastily put the rod back where he had found it.What is it?

A common and boring artifact, unlike myself.

But what’s it for?

Didn’t you find out?The werecat finished cleaning its paw, stretched once more, then
jumped back up to its sleeping place. It sat down, tucked its paws under its breast, and
closed its eyes, purring.

Wait,said Eragon,what’s your name?

One of the werecat’s slanted eyes cracked open.I go by many names. If you are looking
for my proper one, you will have to seek elsewhere. The eye closed. Eragon gave up and
turned to leave.However, you may call me Solembum.

Thank you,said Eragon seriously. Solembum’s purring grew louder.

The door to the shop swung open, letting in a beam of sunlight. Angela entered with a
cloth bag full of plants. Her eyes flickered at Solembum and she looked startled. “He says
you talked with him.”

“You can talk with him, too?” asked Eragon.

She tossed her head. “Of course, but that doesn’t mean he’ll say anything back.” She set
her plants on the counter, then walked behind it and faced him. “He likes you. That’s
unusual. Most of the time Solembum doesn’t show himself to customers. In fact, he says
that you show some promise, given a few years of work.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a compliment, coming from him. You’re only the third person to come in here who
has been able to speak with him. The first was a woman, many years ago; the second was
a blind beggar; and now you. But I don’t run a store just so I can prattle on. Is there
anything you want? Or did you only come in to look?”

“Just to look,” said Eragon, still thinking about the werecat. “Besides, I don’t really need
any herbs.”

“That’s not all I do,” said Angela with a grin. “The rich fool lords pay me for love
potions and the like. I never claim that they work, but for some reason they keep coming


back. But I don’t think you need those chicaneries. Would you like your fortune told? I
do that, too, for all the rich fool ladies.”

Eragon laughed. “No, I’m afraid my fortune is pretty much unreadable. And I don’t have
any money.”

Angela looked at Solembum curiously. “I think . . .” She gestured at the crystal ball
resting on the counter. “That’s only for show anyway—it doesn’t do anything. But I do
have . . . Wait here; I’ll be right back.” She hurried into a room at the back of the shop.

She came back, breathless, holding a leather pouch, which she set on the counter. “I
haven’t used these for so long, I almost forgot where they were. Now, sit across from me
and I’ll show you why I went to all this trouble.” Eragon found a stool and sat.
Solembum’s eyes glowed from the gap in the drawers.

Angela laid a thick cloth on the counter, then poured a handful of smooth bones, each
slightly longer than a finger, onto it. Runes and symbols were inscribed along their sides.
“These,” she said, touching them gently, “are the knucklebones of a dragon. Don’t ask
where I got them; it is a secret I won’t reveal. But unlike tea leaves, crystal balls, or even
divining cards, these have true power. They do not lie, though understanding what they
say is . . . complicated. If you wish, I will cast and read them for you. But understand that
to know one’s fate can be a terrible thing. You must be sure of your decision.”

Eragon looked at the bones with a feeling of dread.There lies what was once one of
Saphira’s kin. To know one’s fate . . . How can I make this decision when I don’t know
what lies in wait for me and whether I will like it?Ignorance is indeed bliss. “Why do you
offer this?” he asked.

“Because of Solembum. He may have been rude, but the fact that he spoke to you makes
you special. Heis a werecat, after all. I offered to do this for the other two people who
talked with him. Only the woman agreed to it. Selena was her name. Ah, she regretted it,
too. Her fortune was bleak and painful. I don’t think she believed it—not at first.”

Emotion overcame Eragon, bringing tears to his eyes. “Selena,” he whispered to himself.
His mother’s name.Could it have been her? Was her destiny so horrible that she had to
abandon me? “Do you remember anything about her fortune?” he asked, feeling sick.

Angela shook her head and sighed. “It was so long ago that the details have melted into
the rest of my memory, which isn’t as good as it used to be. Besides, I’ll not tell you what
I do remember. That was for her and her alone. It was sad, though; I’ve never forgotten
the look on her face.”

Eragon closed his eyes and struggled to regain control of his emotions. “Why do you
complain about your memory?” he asked to distract himself. “You’re not that old.”


Dimples appeared on Angela’s cheeks. “I’m flattered, but don’t be deceived; I’m much
older than I look. The appearance of youth probably comes from having to eat my own
herbs when times are lean.”

Smiling, Eragon took a deep breath.If that was my mother and she could bear to have her
fortune told, I can too. “Cast the bones for me,” he said solemnly.

Angela’s face became grave as she grasped the bones in each hand. Her eyes closed, and
her lips moved in a soundless murmur. Then she said powerfully,“Manin! Wyrda!
Hugin!” and tossed the bones onto the cloth. They fell all jumbled together, gleaming in
the faint light.

The words rang in Eragon’s ears; he recognized them from the ancient language and
realized with apprehension that to use them for magic, Angela must be a witch. She had
not lied; this was a true fortunetelling. Minutes slowly passed as she studied the bones.

Finally, Angela leaned back and heaved a long sigh. She wiped her brow and pulled out a
wineskin from under the counter. “Do you want some?” she asked. Eragon shook his
head. She shrugged and drank deeply. “This,” she said, wiping her mouth, “is the hardest
reading I’ve ever done. You were right. Your future is nigh impossible to see. I’ve never
known of anyone’s fate being so tangled and clouded. I was, however, able to wrestle a
few answers from it.”

Solembum jumped onto the counter and settled there, watching them both. Eragon
clenched his hands as Angela pointed to one of the bones. “I will start here,” she said
slowly, “because it is the clearest to understand.”

The symbol on the bone was a long horizontal line with a circle resting on it. “Infinity or
long life,” said Angela quietly. “This is the first time I have ever seen it come up in
someone’s future. Most of the time it’s the aspen or the elm, both signs that a person will
live a normal span of years. Whether this means that you will live forever or that you will
only have an extraordinarily long life, I’m not sure. Whatever it foretells, you may be
sure that many years lie ahead of you.”

No surprises there—I am a Rider,thought Eragon. Was Angela only going to tell him
things he already knew?

“Now the bones grow harder to read, as the rest are in a confused pile.” Angela touched
three of them. “Here the wandering path, lightning bolt, and sailing ship all lie together—
a pattern I’ve never seen, only heard of. The wandering path shows that there are many
choices in your future, some of which you face even now. I see great battles raging
around you, some of them fought for your sake. I see the mighty powers of this land
struggling to control your will and destiny. Countless possible futures await you—all of
them filled with blood and conflict—but only one will bring you happiness and peace.
Beware of losing your way, for you are one of the few who are truly free to choose their
own fate. That freedom is a gift, but it is also a responsibility more binding than chains.”


Then her face grew sad. “And yet, as if to counteract that, here is the lightning bolt. It is a
terrible omen. There is a doom upon you, but of what sort I know not. Part of it lies in a
death—one that rapidly approaches and will cause you much grief. But the rest awaits in
a great journey. Look closely at this bone. You can see how its end rests on that of the
sailing ship. That is impossible to misunderstand. Your fate will be to leave this land
forever. Where you will end up I know not, but you will never again stand in Alagaësia.
This is inescapable. It will come to pass even if you try to avoid it.”

Her words frightened Eragon.Another death . . . who must I lose now? His thoughts
immediately went to Roran. Then he thought about his homeland.What could ever force
me to leave?And where would I go? If there are lands across the sea or to the east, only
the elves know of them.

Angela rubbed her temples and breathed deeply. “The next bone is easier to read and
perhaps a bit more pleasant.” Eragon examined it and saw a rose blossom inscribed
between the horns of a crescent moon.

Angela smiled and said, “An epic romance is in your future, extraordinary, as the moon
indicates—for that is a magical symbol—and strong enough to outlast empires. I cannot
say if this passion will end happily, but your love is of noble birth and heritage. She is
powerful, wise, and beautiful beyond compare.”

Of noble birth,thought Eragon in surprise.How could that ever happen? I have no more
standing than the poorest of farmers.

“Now for the last two bones, the tree and the hawthorn root, which cross each other
strongly. I wish that this were not so—it can only mean more trouble—but betrayal is
clear. And it will come from within your family.”

“Roran wouldn’t do that!” objected Eragon abruptly.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Angela carefully. “But the bones have never lied, and that is
what they say.”

Doubt wormed into Eragon’s mind, but he tried to ignore it. What reason would there
ever be for Roran to turn on him? Angela put a comforting hand on his shoulder and
offered him the wineskin again. This time Eragon accepted the drink, and it made him
feel better.

“After all that, death might be welcome,” he joked nervously.Betrayal from Roran? It
couldn’t happen! It won’t!

“It might be,” said Angela solemnly, then laughed slightly. “But you shouldn’t fret about
what has yet to occur. The only way the future can harm us is by causing worry. I
guarantee that you’ll feel better once you’re out in the sun.”


“Perhaps.”Unfortunately, he reflected wryly,nothing she said will make sense until it has
already happened. If it really does, he amended himself. “You used words of power,” he
noted quietly.

Angela’s eyes flashed. “What I wouldn’t give to see how the rest of your life plays out.
You can speak to werecats, know of the ancient language, and have a most interesting
future. Also, few young men with empty pockets and rough traveling clothes can expect
to be loved by a noblewoman. Who are you?”

Eragon realized that the werecat must not have told Angela that he was a Rider. He
almost said, “Evan,” but then changed his mind and simply stated, “I am Eragon.”

Angela arched her eyebrows. “Is that who you are or your name?” she asked.

“Both,” said Eragon with a small smile, thinking of his namesake, the first Rider.

“Now I’m all the more interested in seeing how your life will unfold. Who was the
ragged man with you yesterday?”

Eragon decided that one more name couldn’t hurt. “His name is Brom.”

A guffaw suddenly burst out of Angela, doubling her over in mirth. She wiped her eyes
and took a sip of wine, then fought off another attack of merriment. Finally, gasping for
breath, she forced out, “Oh . . . that one! I had no idea!”

“What is it?” demanded Eragon.

“No, no, don’t be upset,” said Angela, hiding a smile. “It’s only that—well, he is known
by those in my profession. I’m afraid that the poor man’s doom, or future if you will, is
something of a joke with us.”

“Don’t insult him! He’s a better man than any you could find!” snapped Eragon.

“Peace, peace,” chided Angela with amusement. “I know that. If we meet again at the
right time I’ll be sure to tell you about it. But in the meantime you should—” She stopped
speaking as Solembum padded between them. The werecat stared at Eragon with
unblinking eyes.

Yes?Eragon asked, irritated.

Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the time comes and you need a
weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your
power is insufficient, go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of
Souls.


Before Eragon could ask what Solembum meant, the werecat walked away, waving his
tail ever so gracefully. Angela tilted her head, coils of dense hair shadowing her forehead.
“I don’t know what he said, and I don’t want to know. He spoke to you and only you.
Don’t tell anyone else.”

“I think I have to go,” said Eragon, shaken.

“If you want to,” said Angela, smiling again. “You are welcome to stay here as long as
you like, especially if you buy some of my goods. But go if you wish; I’m sure that we’ve
given you enough to ponder for a while.”

“Yes.” Eragon quickly made his way to the door. “Thank you for reading my future.”I
think.

“You’re welcome,” said Angela, still smiling.

Eragon exited the shop and stood in the street, squinting until his eyes adjusted to the
brightness. It was a few minutes before he could think calmly about what he had learned.
He started walking, his steps unconsciously quickening until he dashed out of Teirm, feet
flying as he headed to Saphira’s hiding place.

He called to her from the base of the cliff. A minute later she soared down and bore him
up to the cliff top. When they were both safely on the ground, Eragon told her about his
day.And so, he concluded,I think Brom’s right; I always seem to be where there’s trouble.

You should remember what the werecat told you. It’s important.

How do you know?he asked curiously.

I’m not sure, but the names he used feel powerful.Kuthian, she said, rolling the word
around.No, we should not forget what he said.

Do you think I should tell Brom?

It’s your choice, but think of this: he has no right to know your future. To tell him of
Solembum and his words will only raise questions you may not want to answer. And if
you decided to only ask him what those words mean, he will want to know where you
learned them. Do you think you can lie convincingly to him?

No,admitted Eragon.Maybe I won’t say anything. Still, this might be too important to
hide. They talked until there was nothing more to say. Then they sat together
companionably, watching the trees until dusk.

Eragon hurried back to Teirm and was soon knocking on Jeod’s door. “Is Neal back?” he
asked the butler.


“Yes sir. I believe he’s in the study right now.”

“Thank you,” said Eragon. He strode to the room and peeked inside. Brom was sitting
before the fire, smoking. “How did it go?” asked Eragon.

“Bloody awful!” growled Brom around his pipe.

“So you talked to Brand?”

“Not that it did any good. Thisadministrator of trade is the worst sort of bureaucrat. He
abides by every rule, delights in making his own whenever it can inconvenience
someone, and at the same time believes that he’s doing good.”

“Then he won’t let us see the records?” asked Eragon.

“No,” snapped Brom, exasperated. “Nothing I could say would sway him. He even
refused bribes! Substantial ones, too. I didn’t think I would ever meet a noble who wasn’t
corrupt. Now that I have, I find that I prefer them when they’re greedy bastards.” He
puffed furiously on his pipe and mumbled a steady stream of curses.

When he seemed to have calmed, Eragon asked tentatively, “So, what now?”

“I’m going to take the next week and teach you how to read.”

“And after that?”

A smile split Brom’s face. “After that, we’re going to give Brand a nasty surprise.”
Eragon pestered him for details, but Brom refused to say more.

Dinner was held in a sumptuous dining room. Jeod sat at one end of the table, a hard-
eyed Helen at the other. Brom and Eragon were seated between them, which Eragon felt
was a dangerous place to be. Empty chairs were on either side of him, but he didn’t mind
the space. It helped to protect him from the glares of their hostess.

The food was served quietly, and Jeod and Helen wordlessly began eating. Eragon
followed suit, thinking,I’ve had cheerier meals at funerals. And he had, in Carvahall. He
remembered many burials that had been sad, yes, but not unduly so. This was different;
he could feel simmering resentment pouring from Helen throughout the dinner.

OFREADING ANDPLOTS

Brom scratched a rune on parchment with charcoal, then showed it to Eragon. “This is
the lettera, ” he said. “Learn it.”


With that, Eragon began the task of becoming literate. It was difficult and strange and
pushed his intellect to its limits, but he enjoyed it. Without anything else to do and with a
good—if sometimes impatient—teacher, he advanced rapidly.

A routine was soon established. Every day Eragon got up, ate in the kitchen, then went to
the study for his lessons, where he labored to memorize the sounds of the letters and the
rules of writing. It got so that when he closed his eyes, letters and words danced in his
mind. He thought of little else during that time.

Before dinner, he and Brom would go behind Jeod’s house and spar. The servants, along
with a small crowd of wide-eyed children, would come and watch. If there was any time
afterward, Eragon would practice magic in his room, with the curtains securely closed.

His only worry was Saphira. He visited her every evening, but it was not enough time
together for either of them. During the day, Saphira spent most of her time leagues away
searching for food; she could not hunt near Teirm without arousing suspicion. Eragon did
what he could to help her, but he knew that the only solution for both her hunger and
loneliness was to leave the city far behind.

Every day more grim news poured into Teirm. Arriving merchants told of horrific attacks
along the coast. There were reports of powerful people disappearing from their houses in
the night and their mangled corpses being discovered in the morning. Eragon often heard
Brom and Jeod discussing the events in an undertone, but they always stopped when he
came near.

The days passed quickly, and soon a week had gone by. Eragon’s skills were
rudimentary, but he could now read whole pages without asking Brom’s help. He read
slowly, but he knew that speed would come with time. Brom encouraged him, “No
matter, you’ll do fine for what I have planned.”

It was afternoon when Brom summoned both Jeod and Eragon to the study. Brom
gestured at Eragon. “Now that you can help us, I think it’s time to move ahead.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Eragon.

A fierce smile danced on Brom’s face. Jeod groaned. “I know that look; it’s what got us
into trouble in the first place.”

“A slight exaggeration,” said Brom, “but not unwarranted. Very well, this is what we’ll
do. . . .”

We leave tonight or tomorrow,Eragon told Saphira from within his room.

This is unexpected. Will you be safe during this venture?


Eragon shrugged.I don’t know. We may end up fleeing Teirm with soldiers on our heels.
He felt her worry and tried to reassure her.It’ll be all right. Brom and I can use magic,
and we’re good fighters.

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. His hands shook slightly, and there was a
lump in his throat. As sleep overcame him, he felt a wave of confusion.I don’t want to
leave Teirm, he suddenly realized.The time I’ve spent here has been—almost normal.
What I would give not to keep uprooting myself. To stay here and be like everyone else
would be wonderful. Then, another thought raged through him,But I’ll never be able to
while Saphira is around. Never.

Dreams owned his consciousness, twisting and directing it to their whims. At times he
quaked with fear; at others he laughed with pleasure. Then something changed—it was as
though his eyes had been opened for the first time—and a dream came to him that was
clearer than any before.

He saw a young woman, bent over by sorrow, chained in a cold, hard cell. A beam of
moonlight shone through a barred window set high in the wall and fell on her face. A
single tear rolled down her cheek, like a liquid diamond.

Eragon rose with a start and found himself crying uncontrollably before sinking back into
a fitful sleep.

THIEVES IN THECASTLE

Eragon woke from his nap to a golden sunset. Red and orange beams of light streamed
into the room and fell across the bed. They warmed his back pleasantly, making him
reluctant to move. He dozed, but the sunlight crept off him, and he grew cold. The sun
sank below the horizon, lighting the sea and sky with color.Almost time!

He slung his bow and quiver on his back, but left Zar’roc in the room; the sword would
only slow him, and he was averse to using it. If he had to disable someone, he could use
magic or an arrow. He pulled his jerkin over his shirt and laced it securely.

He waited nervously in his room until the light faded. Then he entered the hallway and
shrugged so the quiver settled comfortably across his back. Brom joined him, carrying his
sword and staff.

Jeod, dressed in a black doublet and hose, was waiting for them outside. From his waist
swung an elegant rapier and a leather pouch. Brom eyed the rapier and observed, “That
toad sticker is too thin for any real fighting. What will you do if someone comes after you
with a broadsword or a flamberge?”

“Be realistic,” said Jeod. “None of the guards has a flamberge. Besides, thistoad sticker is
faster than a broadsword.”


Brom shrugged. “It’s your neck.”

They walked casually along the street, avoiding watchmen and soldiers. Eragon was tense
and his heart pounded. As they passed Angela’s shop, a flash of movement on the roof
caught his attention, but he saw no one. His palm tingled. He looked at the roof again, but
it was still empty.

Brom led them along Teirm’s outer wall. By the time they reached the castle, the sky was
black. The sealed walls of the fortress made Eragon shiver. He would hate to be
imprisoned there. Jeod silently took the lead and strode up to the gates, trying to look at
ease. He pounded on the gate and waited.

A small grille slid open and a surly guard peered out. “Ya?” he grunted shortly. Eragon
could smell rum on his breath.

“We need to get in,” said Jeod.

The guard peered at Jeod closer. “Wha’ for?”

“The boy here left something very valuable in my office. We have to retrieve it
immediately.” Eragon hung his head, shamefaced.

The guard frowned, clearly impatient to get back to his bottle. “Ah, wha’ever,” he said,
swinging his arm. “Jus’ make sure ’n give ’im a good beating f’r me.”

“I’ll do that,” assured Jeod as the guard unbolted a small door set into the gate. They
entered the keep, then Brom handed the guard a few coins.

“Thank’ee,” mumbled the man, tottering away. As soon as he was gone, Eragon pulled
his bow from its tube and strung it. Jeod quickly let them into the main part of the castle.
They hurried toward their destination, listening carefully for any soldiers on patrol. At the
records room, Brom tried the door. It was locked. He put his hand against the door and
muttered a word that Eragon did not recognize. It swung open with a faint click. Brom
grabbed a torch from the wall, and they darted inside, closing the door quietly.

The squat room was filled with wooden racks piled high with scrolls. A barred window
was set in the far wall. Jeod threaded his way between the racks, running his eyes over
the scrolls. He halted at the back of the room. “Over here,” he said. “These are the
shipping records for the past five years. You can tell the date by the wax seals on the
corner.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Eragon, pleased that they had made it so far without
being discovered.

“Start at the top and work down,” said Jeod. “Some scrolls only deal with taxes. You can
ignore those. Look for anything that mentions Seithr oil.” He took a length of parchment


from his pouch and stretched it out on the floor, then set a bottle of ink and a quill pen
next to it. “So we can keep track of whatever we find,” he explained.

Brom scooped an armful of scrolls from the top of the rack and piled them on the floor.
He sat and unrolled the first one. Eragon joined him, positioning himself so he could see
the door. The tedious work was especially difficult for him, as the cramped script on the
scrolls was different from the printing Brom had taught him.

By looking only for the names of ships that sailed in the northern areas, they winnowed
out many of the scrolls. Even so, they moved down the rack slowly, recording each
shipment of Seithr oil as they located it.

It was quiet outside the room, except for the occasional watchman. Suddenly, Eragon’s
neck prickled. He tried to keep working, but the uneasy feeling remained. Irritated, he
looked up and jerked with surprise—a small boy crouched on the windowsill. His eyes
were slanted, and a sprig of holly was woven into his shaggy black hair.

Do you need help?asked a voice in Eragon’s head. His eyes widened with shock. It
sounded like Solembum.

Is that you?he asked incredulously.

Am I someone else?

Eragon gulped and concentrated on his scroll. If my eyes don’t deceive me, you are.

The boy smiled slightly, revealing pointed teeth.What I look like doesn’t change who I
am. You don’t think I’m called a werecat for nothing, do you?

What are you doing here?Eragon asked.

The werecat tilted his head and considered whether the question was worth an
answer.That depends on what you are doing here. If you are reading those scrolls for
entertainment, then I suppose there isn’t any reason for my visit. But if what you are
doing is unlawful and you don’t want to be discovered, I might be here to warn you that
the guard whom you bribed just told his replacement about you and that this second
official of the Empire has sent soldiers to search for you.

Thank you for telling me,said Eragon.

Told you something, did I? I suppose I did. And I suggest you make use of it.

The boy stood and tossed back his wild hair. Eragon asked quickly,What did you mean
last time about the tree and the vault?

Exactly what I said.


Eragon tried to ask more, but the werecat vanished through the window. He announced
abruptly, “There are soldiers looking for us.”

“How do you know?” asked Brom sharply.

“I listened in on the guard. His replacement just sent men to search for us. We have to get
out of here. They’ve probably already discovered that Jeod’s office is empty.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jeod.

“Yes!” said Eragon impatiently. “They’re on their way.”

Brom snatched another scroll from the rack. “No matter. We have to finish this now!”
They worked furiously for the next minute, scanning the records as fast as they could. As
the last scroll was finished, Brom threw it back onto the rack, and Jeod jammed his
parchment, ink, and pen into his pouch. Eragon grabbed the torch.

They raced from the room and shut the door, but just as it closed they heard the heavy
tramp of soldiers’ boots at the end of the hall. They turned to leave, but Brom hissed
furiously, “Damnation! It’s not locked.” He put his hand against the door. The lock
clicked at the same time three armed soldiers came into view.

“Hey! Get away from that door!” shouted one of them. Brom stepped back, assuming a
surprised expression. The three men marched up to them. The tallest one demanded,
“Why are you trying to get into the records?” Eragon gripped his bow tighter and
prepared to run.

“I’m afraid we lost our way.” The strain was evident in Jeod’s voice. A drop of sweat
rolled down his neck.

The soldier glared at them suspiciously. “Check inside the room,” he ordered one of his
men.

Eragon held his breath as the soldier stepped up to the door, tried to open it, then pounded
on it with his mailed fist. “It’s locked, sir.”

The leader scratched his chin. “Ar’right, then. I don’t know what you were up to, but as
long as the door’s locked, I guess you’re free to go. Come on.” The soldiers surrounded
them and marched them back to the keep.

I can’t believe it,thought Eragon.They’re helping us get away!

At the main gates, the soldier pointed and said, “Now, you walk through those and don’t
try anything. We’ll be watching. If you have to come back, wait until morning.”

“Of course,” promised Jeod.


Eragon could feel the guards’ eyes boring into their backs as they hurried out of the
castle. The moment that the gates closed behind them, a triumphant grin stretched across
his face, and he jumped into the air. Brom shot him a cautioning look and growled,
“Walk back to the house normally. You can celebrate there.”

Chastised, Eragon adopted a staid demeanor, but inside he still bubbled with energy.
Once they had hurried back to the house and into the study, Eragon exclaimed, “We did
it!”

“Yes, but now we have to figure out if it was worth the trouble,” said Brom. Jeod took a
map of Alagaësia from the shelves and unrolled it on the desk.

On the left side of the map, the ocean extended to the unknown west. Along the coast
stretched the Spine, an immense length of mountains. The Hadarac Desert filled the
center of the map—the east end was blank. Somewhere in that void hid the Varden. To
the south was Surda, a small country that had seceded from the Empire after the Riders’
fall. Eragon had been told that Surda secretly supported the Varden.

Near Surda’s eastern border was a mountain range labeled Beor Mountains. Eragon had
heard of them in many stories—they were supposed to be ten times the height of the
Spine, though he privately believed that was exaggeration. The map was empty to the
east of the Beors.

Five islands rested off the coast of Surda: Nía, Parlim, Uden, Illium, and Beirland. Nía
was no more than an outcropping of rock, but Beirland, the largest, had a small town.
Farther up, near Teirm, was a jagged island called Sharktooth. And high to the north was
one more island, immense and shaped like a knobby hand. Eragon knew its name without
even looking: Vroengard, the ancestral home of the Riders—once a place of glory, but
now a looted, empty shell haunted by strange beasts. In the center of Vroengard was the
abandoned city of Dorú Areaba.

Carvahall was a small dot at the top of Palancar Valley. Level with it, but across the
plains, sprawled the forest Du Weldenvarden. Like the Beor Mountains, its eastern end
was unmapped. Parts of Du Weldenvarden’s western edge had been settled, but its heart
lay mysterious and unexplored. The forest was wilder than the Spine; the few who braved
its depths often came back raving mad, or not at all.

Eragon shivered as he saw Urû’baen in the center of the Empire. King Galbatorix ruled
from there with his black dragon, Shruikan, by his side. Eragon put his finger on
Urû’baen. “The Ra’zac are sure to have a hiding place here.”

“You had better hope that that isn’t their only sanctuary,” said Brom flatly. “Otherwise
you’ll never get near them.” He pushed the rustling map flat with his wrinkled hands.

Jeod took the parchment out of his pouch and said, “From what I saw in the records, there
have been shipments of Seithr oil to every major city in the Empire over the past five


years. As far as I can tell, all of them might have been ordered by wealthy jewelers. I’m
not sure how we can narrow down the list without more information.”

Brom swept a hand over the map. “I think we can eliminate some cities. The Ra’zac have
to travel wherever the king wants, and I’m sure he keeps them busy. If they’re expected
to go anywhere at anytime, the only reasonable place for them to stay is at a crossroads
where they can reach every part of the country fairly easily.” He was excited now and
paced the room. “This crossroads has to be large enough so the Ra’zac will be
inconspicuous. It also has to have enough trade so any unusual requests—special food for
their mounts, for example—will go unnoticed.”

“That makes sense,” said Jeod, nodding. “Under those conditions, we can ignore most of
the cities in the north. The only big ones are Teirm, Gil’ead, and Ceunon. I know they’re
not in Teirm, and I doubt that the oil has been shipped farther up the coast to Narda—it’s
too small. Ceunon is too isolated . . . only Gil’ead remains.”

“The Ra’zac might be there,” conceded Brom. “It would have a certain irony.”

“It would at that,” Jeod acknowledged softly.

“What about southern cities?” asked Eragon.

“Well,” said Jeod. “There’s obviously Urû’baen, but that’s an unlikely destination. If
someone were to die from Seithr oil in Galbatorix’s court, it would be all too easy for an
earl or some other lord to discover that the Empire had been buying large amounts of it.
That still leaves many others, any one of which could be the one we want.”

“Yes,” said Eragon, “but the oil wasn’t sent to all of them. The parchment only lists
Kuasta, Dras-Leona, Aroughs, and Belatona. Kuasta wouldn’t work for the Ra’zac; it’s
on the coast and surrounded by mountains. Aroughs is isolated like Ceunon, though it is a
center of trade. That leaves Belatona and Dras-Leona, which are rather close together. Of
the two, I think Dras-Leona is the likelier. It’s larger and better situated.”

“And that’s where nearly all the goods of the Empire pass through at one time or another,
including Teirm’s,” said Jeod. “It would be a good place for the Ra’zac to hide.”

“So . . . Dras-Leona,” said Brom as he sat down and lit his pipe. “What do the records
show?”

Jeod looked at the parchment. “Here it is. At the beginning of the year, three shipments of
Seithr oil were sent to Dras-Leona. Each shipment was only two weeks apart, and the
records say they were all transported by the same merchant. The same thing happened
last year and the year before that. I doubt any one jeweler, or even a group of them, has
the money for so much oil.”

“What about Gil’ead?” asked Brom, raising an eyebrow.


“It doesn’t have the same access to the rest of the Empire. And,” Jeod tapped the
parchment, “they’ve only received the oil twice in recent years.” He thought for a
moment, then said, “Besides, I think we forgot something—Helgrind.”

Brom nodded. “Ah yes, the Dark Gates. It’s been many years since I’ve thought of it.
You’re right, that would make Dras-Leona perfect for the Ra’zac. I guess it’s decided,
then; that’s where we’ll go.”

Eragon sat abruptly, too drained of emotion to even ask what Helgrind was.I thought I
would be happy to resume the hunt. Instead, I feel like an abyss has opened up before me.
Dras-Leona! It’s so far away. . . .

The parchment crackled as Jeod slowly rolled up the map. He handed it to Brom and said,
“You’ll need this, I’m afraid. Your expeditions often take you into obscure regions.”
Nodding, Brom accepted the map. Jeod clapped him on the shoulder. “It doesn’t feel
right that you will leave without me. My heart expects to go along, but the rest of me
reminds me of my age and responsibilities.”

“I know,” said Brom. “But you have a life in Teirm. It is time for the next generation to
take up the standard. You’ve done your part; be happy.”

“What of you?” asked Jeod. “Does the road ever end for you?”

A hollow laugh escaped Brom’s lips. “I see it coming, but not for a while.” He
extinguished his pipe, and they left for their rooms, exhausted. Before he fell asleep,
Eragon contacted Saphira to relate the night’s adventures.

ACOSTLYMISTAKE

In the morning Eragon and Brom retrieved their saddlebags from the stable and prepared
to depart. Jeod greeted Brom while Helen watched from the doorway. With grave looks,
the two men clasped hands. “I’ll miss you, old man,” said Jeod.

“And you I,” said Brom thickly. He bowed his white head and then turned to Helen.
“Thank you for your hospitality; it was most gracious.” Her face reddened. Eragon
thought she was going to slap him. Brom continued, unperturbed, “You have a good
husband; take care of him. There are few men as brave and as determined as he is. But
even he cannot weather difficult times without support from those he loves.” He bowed
again and said gently, “Only a suggestion, dear lady.”

Eragon watched as indignation and hurt crossed Helen’s face. Her eyes flashed as she
shut the door brusquely. Sighing, Jeod ran his fingers through his hair. Eragon thanked
him for all his help, then mounted Cadoc. With the last farewells said, he and Brom
departed.


At Teirm’s south gate, the guards let them through without a second glance. As they rode
under the giant outer wall, Eragon saw movement in a shadow. Solembum was crouched
on the ground, tail twitching. The werecat followed them with inscrutable eyes. As the
city receded into the distance, Eragon asked, “What are werecats?”

Brom looked surprised at the question. “Why the sudden curiosity?”

“I heard someone mention them in Teirm. They’re not real, are they?” said Eragon,
pretending ignorance.

“They are quite real. During the Riders’ years of glory, they were as renowned as the
dragons. Kings and elves kept them as companions—yet the werecats were free to do
what they chose. Very little has ever been known about them. I’m afraid that their race
has become rather scarce recently.”

“Could they use magic?” asked Eragon.

“No one’s sure, but they could certainly do unusual things. They always seemed to know
what was going on and somehow or another manage to get themselves involved.” Brom
pulled his hood up to block a chill wind.

“What’s Helgrind?” asked Eragon, after a moment’s thought.

“You’ll see when we get to Dras-Leona.”

When Teirm was out of sight, Eragon reached out with his mind and called,Saphira! The
force of his mental shout was so strong that Cadoc flicked his ears in annoyance.

Saphira answered and sped toward them with all of her strength. Eragon and Brom
watched as a dark blur rushed from a cloud, then heard a dull roar as Saphira’s wings
flared open. The sun shone behind the thin membranes, turning them translucent and
silhouetting the dark veins. She landed with a blast of air.

Eragon tossed Cadoc’s reins to Brom. “I’ll join you for lunch.”

Brom nodded, but seemed preoccupied. “Have a good time,” he said, then looked at
Saphira and smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

And you too.

Eragon hopped onto Saphira’s shoulders and held on tightly as she bounded upward.
With the wind at her tail, Saphira sliced through the air.Hold on, she warned Eragon, and
letting out a wild bugle, she soared in a great loop. Eragon yelled with excitement as he
flung his arms in the air, holding on only with his legs.


I didn’t know I could stay on while you did that without being strapped into the saddle,he
said, grinning fiercely.

Neither did I,admitted Saphira, laughing in her peculiar way. Eragon hugged her tightly,
and they flew a level path, masters of the sky.

By noon his legs were sore from riding bareback, and his hands and face were numb from
the cold air. Saphira’s scales were always warm to the touch, but she could not keep him
from getting chilled. When they landed for lunch, he buried his hands in his clothes and
found a warm, sunny place to sit. As he and Brom ate, Eragon asked Saphira,Do you
mind if I ride Cadoc? He had decided to question Brom further about his past.

No, but tell me what he says.Eragon was not surprised that Saphira knew his plans. It was
nearly impossible to hide anything from her when they were mentally linked. When they
finished eating, she flew away as he joined Brom on the trail. After a time, Eragon
slowed Cadoc and said, “I need to talk to you. I wanted to do it when we first arrived in
Teirm, but I decided to wait until now.”

“About what?” asked Brom.

Eragon paused. “There’s a lot going on that I don’t understand. For instance, who are
your ‘friends,’ and why were you hiding in Carvahall? I trust you with my life—which is
why I’m still traveling with you—but I need to know more about who you are and what
you are doing. What did you steal in Gil’ead, and what is the tuatha du orothrim that
you’re taking me through? I think that after all that’s happened, I deserve an
explanation.”

“You eavesdropped on us.”

“Only once,” said Eragon.

“I see that you have yet to learn proper manners,” said Brom grimly, tugging on his
beard. “What makes you think that this concerns you?”

“Nothing, really,” said Eragon shrugging. “Just it’s an odd coincidence that you
happened to be hiding in Carvahall when I found Saphira’s eggand that you also know so
much dragonlore. The more I think about it, the less likely it seems. There were other
clues that I mostly ignored, but they’re obvious now that I look back. Like how you knew
of the Ra’zac in the first place and why they ran away when you approached. And I can’t
help but wonder if you had something to do with the appearance of Saphira’s egg.
There’s a lot you haven’t told us, and Saphira and I can’t afford to ignore anything that
might be dangerous.”

Dark lines appeared on Brom’s forehead as he reined Snowfire to a halt. “You won’t
wait?” he asked. Eragon shook his head mulishly. Brom sighed. “This wouldn’t be a
problem if you weren’t so suspicious, but I suppose that you wouldn’t be worth my time


if you were otherwise.” Eragon was unsure if he should take that as a compliment. Brom
lit his pipe and slowly blew a plume of smoke into the air. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “but
you have to understand that I cannot reveal everything.” Eragon started to protest, but
Brom cut him off. “It’s not out of a desire to withhold information, but because I won’t
give away secrets that aren’t mine. There are other stories woven in with this narrative.
You’ll have to talk with the others involved to find out the rest.”

“Very well. Explain what you can,” said Eragon.

“Are you sure?” asked Brom. “There are reasons for my secretiveness. I’ve tried to
protect you by shielding you from forces that would tear you apart. Once you know of
them and their purposes, you’ll never have the chance to live quietly. You will have to
choose sides and make a stand. Do you really want to know?”

“I cannot live my life in ignorance,” said Eragon quietly.

“A worthy goal. . . . Very well: there is a war raging in Alagaësia between the Varden
and the Empire. Their conflict, however, reaches far beyond any incidental armed
clashes. They are locked in a titanic power struggle . . . centered around you.”

“Me?” said Eragon, disbelieving. “That’s impossible. I don’t have anything to do with
either of them.”

“Not yet,” said Brom, “but your very existence is the focus of their battles. The Varden
and the Empire aren’t fighting to control this land or its people. Their goal is to control
the next generation of Riders, of whom you are the first. Whoever controls these Riders
will become the undisputed master of Alagaësia.”

Eragon tried to absorb Brom’s statements. It seemed incomprehensible that so many
people would be interested in him and Saphira. No one besides Brom had thought he was
that important. The whole concept of the Empire and Varden fighting over him was too
abstract for him to grasp fully. Objections quickly formed in his mind. “But all the Riders
were killed except for the Forsworn, who joined Galbatorix. As far as I know, even those
are now dead. And you told me in Carvahall that no one knows if there are still dragons
in Alagaësia.”

“I lied about the dragons,” said Brom flatly. “Even though the Riders are gone, there are
still three dragon eggs left—all of them in Galbatorix’s possession. Actually there are
only two now, since Saphira hatched. The king salvaged the three during his last great
battle with the Riders.”

“So there may soon be two new Riders, both of them loyal to the king?” asked Eragon
with a sinking feeling.


“Exactly,” said Brom. “There is a deadly race in progress. Galbatorix is desperately
trying to find the people for whom his eggs will hatch, while the Varden are employing
every means to kill his candidates or steal the eggs.”

“But where did Saphira’s egg come from? How could anyone have gotten it away from
the king? And why do you know all of this?” asked Eragon, bewildered.

“So many questions,” laughed Brom bitterly. “There is another chapter to all this, one
that took place long before you were born. Back then I was a bit younger, though perhaps
not as wise. I hated the Empire—for reasons I’ll keep to myself—and wanted to damage
it in any way I could. My fervor led me to a scholar, Jeod, who claimed to have
discovered a book that showed a secret passageway into Galbatorix’s castle. I eagerly
brought Jeod to the Varden—who are my ‘friends’—and they arranged to have the eggs
stolen.”

The Varden!

“However, something went amiss, and our thief got only one egg. For some reason he
fled with it and didn’t return to the Varden. When he wasn’t found, Jeod and I were sent
to bring him and the egg back.” Brom’s eyes grew distant, and he spoke in a curious
voice. “That was the start of one of the greatest searches in history. We raced against the
Ra’zac and Morzan, last of the Forsworn and the king’s finest servant.”

“Morzan!” interrupted Eragon. “But he was the one who betrayed the Riders to
Galbatorix!”And that happened so long ago! Morzan must have been ancient. It disturbed
him to be reminded of how long Riders lived.

“So?” asked Brom, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, he was old, but strong and cruel. He was
one of the king’s first followers and by far his most loyal. As there had been blood
between us before, the hunt for the egg turned into a personal battle. When it was located
in Gil’ead, I rushed there and fought Morzan for possession. It was a terrible contest, but
in the end I slew him. During the conflict I was separated from Jeod. There was no time
to search for him, so I took the egg and bore it to the Varden, who asked me to train
whomever became the new Rider. I agreed and decided to hide in Carvahall—which I
had been to several times before—until the Varden contacted me. I was never
summoned.”

“Then how did Saphira’s egg appear in the Spine? Was another one stolen from the
king?” asked Eragon.

Brom grunted. “Small chance of that. He has the remaining two guarded so thoroughly
that it would be suicide to try and steal them. No, Saphira was taken from the Varden,
and I think I know how. To protect the egg, its guardian must have tried to send it to me
with magic.


“The Varden haven’t contacted me to explain how they lost the egg, so I suspect that
their runners were intercepted by the Empire and the Ra’zac were sent in their place. I’m
sure they were quite eager to find me, as I’ve managed to foil many of their plans.”

“Then the Ra’zac didn’t know about me when they arrived in Carvahall,” said Eragon
with wonder.

“That’s right,” replied Brom. “If that ass Sloan had kept his mouth shut, they might not
have found out about you. Events could have turned out quite differently. In a way I have
you to thank for my life. If the Ra’zac hadn’t become so preoccupied with you, they
might have caught me unawares, and that would have been the end of Brom the
storyteller. The only reason they ran was because I’m stronger than the two of them,
especially during the day. They must have planned to drug me during the night, then
question me about the egg.”

“You sent a message to the Varden, telling them about me?”

“Yes. I’m sure they’ll want me to bring you to them as soon as possible.”

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

Brom shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

“Why not? Being with the Varden must be safer than chasing after the Ra’zac, especially
for a new Rider.”

Brom snorted and looked at Eragon with fondness. “The Varden are dangerous people. If
we go to them, you will be entangled in their politics and machinations. Their leaders
may send you on missions just to make a point, even though you might not be strong
enough for them. I want you to be well prepared before you go anywhere near the
Varden. At least while we pursue the Ra’zac, I don’t have to worry about someone
poisoning your water. This is the lesser of two evils. And,” he said with a smile, “it keeps
you happy while I train you. . . . Tuatha du orothrim is just a stage in your instruction.
Iwill help you find—and perhaps even kill—the Ra’zac, for they are as much my enemies
as yours. But then you will have to make a choice.”

“And that would be . . . ?” asked Eragon warily.

“Whether to join the Varden,” said Brom. “If you kill the Ra’zac, the only ways for you
to escape Galbatorix’s wrath will be to seek the Varden’s protection, flee to Surda, or
plead for the king’s mercy and join his forces. Even if you don’t kill the Ra’zac, you will
still face this choice eventually.”

Eragon knew the best way to gain sanctuary might be to join the Varden, but he did not
want to spend his entire life fighting the Empire like they did. He mulled over Brom’s


comments, trying to consider them from every angle. “You still didn’t explain how you
know so much about dragons.”

“No, I didn’t, did I?” said Brom with a crooked smile. “That will have to wait for another
time.”

Why me?Eragon asked himself. What made him so special that he should become a
Rider? “Did you ever meet my mother?” he blurted.

Brom looked grave. “Yes, I did.”

“What was she like?”

The old man sighed. “She was full of dignity and pride, like Garrow. Ultimately it was
her downfall, but it was one of her greatest gifts nevertheless. . . . She always helped the
poor and the less fortunate, no matter what her situation.”

“You knew her well?” asked Eragon, startled.

“Well enough to miss her when she was gone.”

As Cadoc plodded along, Eragon tried to recall when he had thought that Brom was just a
scruffy old man who told stories. For the first time Eragon understood how ignorant he
had been.

He told Saphira what he had learned. She was intrigued by Brom’s revelations, but
recoiled from the thought of being one of Galbatorix’s possessions. At last she
said,Aren’t you glad that you didn’t stay in Carvahall? Think of all the interesting
experiences you would have missed! Eragon groaned in mock distress.

When they stopped for the day, Eragon searched for water while Brom made dinner. He
rubbed his hands together for warmth as he walked in a large circle, listening for a creek
or spring. It was gloomy and damp between the trees.

He found a stream a ways from the camp, then crouched on the bank and watched the
water splash over the rocks, dipping in his fingertips. The icy mountain water swirled
around his skin, numbing it.It doesn’t care what happens to us, or anyone else, thought
Eragon. He shivered and stood.

An unusual print on the opposing stream bank caught his attention. It was oddly shaped
and very large. Curious, he jumped across the stream and onto a rock shelf. As he landed,
his foot hit a patch of damp moss. He grabbed a branch for support, but it broke, and he
thrust out his hand to break his fall. He felt his right wrist crack as he hit the ground. Pain
lanced up his arm.


A steady stream of curses came out from behind his clenched teeth as he tried not to
howl. Half blind with pain, he curled on the ground, cradling his arm.Eragon! came
Saphira’s alarmed cry.What happened?

Broke my wrist . . . did something stupid . . . fell.
I’m coming,said Saphira.
No—I can make it back. Don’t . . . come. Trees too close for . . . wings.
She sent him a brief image of her tearing the forest apart to get at him, then said,Hurry.
Groaning, he staggered upright. The print was pressed deeply into the ground a few feet


away. It was the mark of a heavy, nail-studded boot. Eragon instantly remembered the
tracks that had surrounded the pile of bodies in Yazuac. “Urgal,” he spat, wishing that
Zar’roc was with him; he could not use his bow with only one hand. His head snapped
up, and he shouted with his mind,Saphira! Urgals! Keep Brom safe.

Eragon leapt back over the stream and raced toward their camp, yanking out his hunting
knife. He saw potential enemies behind every tree and bush.I hope there’s only one
Urgal. He burst into the camp, ducking as Saphira’s tail swung overhead. “Stop. It’s me!”
he yelled.

Oops,said Saphira. Her wings were folded in front of her chest like a wall.
“Oops?” growled Eragon, running to her. “You could’ve killed me! Where’s Brom?”
“I’m right here,” snapped Brom’s voice from behind Saphira’s wings. “Tell your crazy


dragon to release me; she won’t listen to me.”
“Let him go!” said Eragon, exasperated. “Didn’t you tell him?”
No,she said sheepishly.You just said to keep him safe. She lifted her wings, and Brom


stepped forward angrily.
“I found an Urgal footprint. And it’s fresh.”
Brom immediately turned serious. “Saddle the horses. We’re leaving.” He put out the


fire, but Eragon did not move. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
“My wrist is broken,” he said, swaying.
Brom cursed and saddled Cadoc for him. He helped Eragon onto the horse and said, “We


have to put a splint on your arm as soon as possible. Try not to move your wrist until
then.” Eragon gripped the reins tightly with his left hand. Brom said to Saphira, “It’s


almost dark; you might as well fly right overhead. If Urgals show up, they’ll think twice
about attacking with you nearby.”

They’d better, or else they won’t think again,remarked Saphira as she took off.

The light was disappearing quickly, and the horses were tired, but they spurred them on
without respite. Eragon’s wrist, swollen and red, continued to throb. A mile from the
camp, Brom halted. “Listen,” he said.

Eragon heard the faint call of a hunting horn behind them. As it fell silent, panic gripped
him. “They must have found where we were,” said Brom, “and probably Saphira’s tracks.
They will chase us now. It’s not in their nature to let prey escape.” Then two horns
winded. They were closer. A chill ran through Eragon. “Our only chance is to run,” said
Brom. He raised his head to the sky, and his face blanked as he called Saphira.

She rushed out of the night sky and landed. “Leave Cadoc. Go with her. You’ll be safer,”
commanded Brom.

“What about you?” Eragon protested.

“I’ll be fine. Now go!” Unable to muster the energy to argue, Eragon climbed onto
Saphira while Brom lashed Snowfire and rode away with Cadoc. Saphira flew after him,
flapping above the galloping horses.

Eragon clung to Saphira as best he could; he winced whenever her movements jostled his
wrist. The horns blared nearby, bringing a fresh wave of terror. Brom crashed through the
underbrush, forcing the horses to their limits. The horns trumpeted in unison close behind
him, then were quiet.

Minutes passed.Where are the Urgals? wondered Eragon. A horn sounded, this time in
the distance. He sighed in relief, resting against Saphira’s neck, while on the ground
Brom slowed his headlong rush.That was close, said Eragon.

Yes, but we cannot stop until—Saphira was interrupted as a horn blasted directly
underneath them. Eragon jerked in surprise, and Brom resumed his frenzied retreat.
Horned Urgals, shouting with coarse voices, barreled along the trail on horses, swiftly
gaining ground. They were almost in sight of Brom; the old man could not outrun
them.We have to do something! exclaimed Eragon.

What?

Land in front of the Urgals!

Are you crazy?demanded Saphira.


Land! I know what I’m doing,said Eragon.There isn’t time for anything else. They’re
going to overtake Brom!

Very well.Saphira pulled ahead of the Urgals, then turned, preparing to drop onto the trail.
Eragon reached for his power and felt the familiar resistance in his mind that separated
him from the magic. He did not try to breach it yet. A muscle twitched in his neck.

As the Urgals pounded up the trail, he shouted, “Now!” Saphira abruptly folded her
wings and dropped straight down from above the trees, landing on the trail in a spray of
dirt and rocks.

The Urgals shouted with alarm and yanked on their horses’ reins. The animals went stiff-
legged and collided into each other, but the Urgals quickly untangled themselves to face
Saphira with bared weapons. Hate crossed their faces as they glared at her. There were
twelve of them, all ugly, jeering brutes. Eragon wondered why they did not flee. He had
thought that the sight of Saphira would frighten them away.Why are they waiting? Are
they going to attack us or not?

He was shocked when the largest Urgal advanced and spat, “Our master wishes to speak
with you, human!” The monster spoke in deep, rolling gutturals.

It’s a trap,warned Saphira before Eragon could say anything.Don’t listen to him.

At least let’s find out what he has to say,he reasoned, curious, but extremely wary. “Who
is your master?” he asked.

The Urgal sneered. “His name does not deserve to be given to one as low as yourself. He
rules the sky and holds dominance over the earth. You are no more than a stray ant to
him. Yet he has decreed that you shall be brought before him,alive . Take heart that you
have become worthy of such notice!”

“I’ll never go with you nor any of my enemies!” declared Eragon, thinking of Yazuac.
“Whether you serve Shade, Urgal, or some twisted fiend I’ve not heard of, I have no wish
to parley with him.”

“That is a grave mistake,” growled the Urgal, showing his fangs. “There is no way to
escape him. Eventually you will stand before our master. If you resist, he will fill your
days with agony.”

Eragon wondered who had the power to bring the Urgals under one banner. Was there a
third great force loose in the land—along with the Empire and the Varden? “Keep your
offer and tell your master that the crows can eat his entrails for all I care!”

Rage swept through the Urgals; their leader howled, gnashing his teeth. “We’ll drag you
to him, then!” He waved his arm and the Urgals rushed at Saphira. Raising his right hand,
Eragon barked, “Jierda!”


No!cried Saphira, but it was too late.

The monsters faltered as Eragon’s palm glowed. Beams of light lanced from his hand,
striking each of them in the gut. The Urgals were thrown through the air and smashed
into trees, falling senseless to the ground.

Fatigue suddenly drained Eragon of strength, and he tumbled off Saphira. His mind felt
hazy and dull. As Saphira bent over him, he realized that he might have gone too far. The
energy needed to lift and throw twelve Urgals was enormous. Fear engulfed him as he
struggled to stay conscious.

At the edge of his vision he saw one of the Urgals stagger to his feet, sword in hand.
Eragon tried to warn Saphira, but he was too weak.No . . . , he thought feebly. The Urgal
crept toward Saphira until he was well past her tail, then raised his sword to strike her
neck.No!. . . Saphira whirled on the monster, roaring savagely. Her talons slashed with
blinding speed. Blood spurted everywhere as the Urgal was rent in two.

Saphira snapped her jaws together with finality and returned to Eragon. She gently
wrapped her bloody claws around his torso, then growled and jumped into the air. The
night blurred into a pain-filled streak. The hypnotic sound of Saphira’s wings put him in a
bleary trance: up, down; up, down; up, down. . . .

When Saphira eventually landed, Eragon was dimly aware of Brom talking with her.
Eragon could not understand what they said, but a decision must have been reached
because Saphira took off again.

His stupor yielded to sleep that covered him like a soft blanket.

VISION OFPERFECTION

Eragon twisted under the blankets, reluctant to open his eyes. He dozed, then a fuzzy
thought entered his mind . . .How did I get here? Confused, he pulled the blankets tighter
and felt something hard on his right arm. He tried to move his wrist. It zinged with
pain.The Urgals! He bolted upright.

He lay in a small clearing that was empty save a small campfire heating a stew-filled pot.
A squirrel chattered on a branch. His bow and quiver rested alongside the blankets.
Attempting to stand made him grimace, as his muscles were feeble and sore. There was a
heavy splint on his bruised right arm.

Where is everyone?he wondered forlornly. He tried to call Saphira, but to his alarm could
not feel her. Ravenous hunger gripped him, so he ate the stew. Still hungry, he looked for
the saddlebags, hoping to find a chunk of bread. Neither the saddlebags nor the horses
were in the clearing.I’m sure there’s a good reason for this, he thought, suppressing a
surge of uneasiness.


He wandered about the clearing, then returned to his blankets and rolled them up.
Without anything better to do, he sat against a tree and watched the clouds overhead.
Hours passed, but Brom and Saphira did not show up.I hope nothing’s wrong.

As the afternoon dragged on, Eragon grew bored and started to explore the surrounding
forest. When he became tired, he rested under a fir tree that leaned against a boulder with
a bowl-shaped depression filled with clear dew water.

Eragon stared at the water and thought about Brom’s instructions for scrying.Maybe I can
see where Saphira is. Brom said that scrying takes a lot of energy, but I’m stronger than
he is. . . . He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. In his mind he formed a picture of
Saphira, making it as lifelike as possible. It was more demanding than he expected. Then
he said, “Draumr kópa!”and gazed at the water.

Its surface became completely flat, frozen by an invisible force. The reflections
disappeared and the water became clear. On it shimmered an image of Saphira. Her
surroundings were pure white, but Eragon could see that she was flying. Brom sat on her
back, beard streaming, sword on his knees.

Eragon tiredly let the image fade.At least they’re safe. He gave himself a few minutes to
recuperate, then leaned back over the water.Roran, how are you? In his mind he saw his
cousin clearly. Impulsively, he drew upon the magic and uttered the words.

The water grew still, then the image formed on its surface. Roran appeared, sitting on an
invisible chair. Like Saphira, his surroundings were white. There were new lines on
Roran’s face—he looked more like Garrow than ever before. Eragon held the image in
place as long as he could.Is Roran in Therinsford? He’s certainly nowhere I’ve been.

The strain of using magic had brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He sighed and for a
long time was content just to sit. Then an absurd notion struck him.What if I tried to scry
something I created with my imagination or saw in a dream? He smiled.Perhaps I’d be
shown what my own consciousness looks like.

It was too tempting an idea to pass by. He knelt by the water once again.What shall I look
for? He considered a few things, but discarded them all when he remembered his dream
about the woman in the cell.

After fixing the scene in his mind, he spoke the words and watched the water intently. He
waited, but nothing happened. Disappointed, he was about to release the magic when
inky blackness swirled across the water, covering the surface. The image of a lone candle
flickered in the darkness, brightening to illuminate a stone cell. The woman from his
dream was curled up on a cot in one corner. She lifted her head, dark hair falling back,
and stared directly at Eragon. He froze, the force of her gaze keeping him in place. Chills
ran up his spine as their eyes locked. Then the woman trembled and collapsed limply.


The water cleared. Eragon rocked back on his heels, gasping. “This can’t be.”She
shouldn’t be real; I only dreamed about her! How could she know I was looking at her?
And how could I have scryed into a dungeon that I’ve never seen? He shook his head,
wondering if any of his other dreams had been visions.

The rhythmic thump of Saphira’s wings interrupted his thoughts. He hurried back to the
clearing, arriving just as Saphira landed. Brom was on her back, as Eragon had seen, but
his sword was now bloody. Brom’s face was contorted; the edges of his beard were
stained red. “What happened?” asked Eragon, afraid that he had been wounded.

“What happened?” roared the old man. “I’ve been trying to clean up your mess!” He
slashed the air with the sword, flinging drops of blood along its arc. “Do you know what
you did with that little trick of yours? Do you?”

“I stopped the Urgals from catching you,” said Eragon, a pit forming in his stomach.

“Yes,” growled Brom, “but that piece of magic nearly killed you! You’ve been sleeping
for two days. There were twelve Urgals.Twelve! But that didn’t stop you from trying to
throw them all the way to Teirm, now did it? What were you thinking? Sending a rock
through each of their heads would have been the smart thing to do. But no, you had to
knock them unconscious so they could run away later. I’ve spent the last two days trying
to track them down. Even with Saphira, three escaped!”

“I didn’t want to kill them,” said Eragon, feeling very small.

“It wasn’t a problem in Yazuac.”

“There was no choice then, and I couldn’t control the magic. This time it just seemed . . .
extreme.”

“Extreme!” cried Brom. “It’s not extreme when they wouldn’t show you the same mercy.
And why, oh why, did youshow yourself to them?”

“You said that they had found Saphira’s footprints. It didn’t make any difference if they
saw me,” said Eragon defensively.

Brom stabbed his sword into the dirt and snapped, “I said they hadprobably found her
tracks. We didn’t know for certain. They might have believed they were chasing some
stray travelers. But why would they think that now? After all,you landed right in front of
them! And since you let them live, they’re scrambling around the countryside with all
sorts of fantastic tales! This might even get back to the Empire!” He threw his hands up.
“You don’t even deserve to be called a Rider after this,boy. ” Brom yanked his sword out
of the ground and stomped to the fire. He took a rag from inside his robe and angrily
began to clean the blade.


Eragon was stunned. He tried to ask Saphira for advice, but all she would say was,Speak
with Brom.

Hesitantly, Eragon made his way to the fire and asked, “Would it help if I said I was
sorry?”

Brom sighed and sheathed his sword. “No, it wouldn’t. Your feelings can’t change what
happened.” He jabbed his finger at Eragon’s chest. “You made some very bad choices
that could have dangerous repercussions. Not the least of which is that you almost died.
Died, Eragon! From now on you’re going to have to think. There’s a reason why we’re
born with brains in our heads, not rocks.”

Eragon nodded, abashed. “It’s not as bad as you think, though; the Urgals already knew
about me. They had orders to capture me.”

Astonishment widened Brom’s eyes. He stuck his unlit pipe in his mouth. “No, it’s not as
bad as I thought. It’s worse! Saphira told me you had talked with the Urgals, but she
didn’t mention this.” The words tumbled out of Eragon’s mouth as he quickly described
the confrontation. “So they have some sort of leader now, eh?” questioned Brom.

Eragon nodded.

“And you just defied his wishes, insulted him, and attacked his men?” Brom shook his
head. “I didn’t think it could get any worse. If the Urgals had been killed, your rudeness
would have gone unnoticed, but now it’ll be impossible to ignore. Congratulations, you
just made enemies with one of the most powerful beings in Alagaësia.”

“All right, I made a mistake,” said Eragon sullenly.

“Yes, you did,” agreed Brom, eyes flashing. “What has me worried, though, is who this
Urgal leader is.”

Shivering, Eragon asked softly, “What happens now?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Your arm is going to take at least a couple of weeks
to heal. That time would be well spent forging some sense into you. I suppose this is
partially my fault. I’ve been teaching youhow to do things, but not whether youshould. It
takes discretion, something you obviously lack. All the magic in Alagaësia won’t help
you if you don’t know when to use it.”

“But we’re still going to Dras-Leona, right?” asked Eragon.

Brom rolled his eyes. “Yes, we can keep looking for the Ra’zac, but even if we find
them, it won’t do any good until you’ve healed.” He began unsaddling Saphira. “Are you
well enough to ride?”


“I think so.”

“Good, then we can still cover a few miles today.”

“Where are Cadoc and Snowfire?”

Brom pointed off to the side. “Over there a ways. I picketed them where there was grass.”
Eragon prepared to leave, then followed Brom to the horses.

Saphira said pointedly,If you had explained what you were planning to do, none of this
would have happened. I would have told you it was a bad idea not to kill the Urgals. I
only agreed to do what you asked because I assumed it was halfway reasonable!

I don’t want to talk about it.

As you wish,she sniffed.

As they rode, every bump and dip in the trail made Eragon grit his teeth with discomfort.
If he had been alone, he would have stopped. With Brom there, he dared not complain.
Also, Brom started drilling him with difficult scenarios involving Urgals, magic, and
Saphira. The imagined fights were many and varied. Sometimes a Shade or other dragons
were included. Eragon discovered that it was possible to torture his body and mind at the
same time. He got most of the questions wrong and became increasingly frustrated.

When they stopped for the night, Brom grumbled shortly, “It was a start.” Eragon knew
that he was disappointed.

MASTER OF
THEBLADE

The next day was easier on both of them. Eragon felt better and was able to answer
more of Brom’s questions correctly. After an especially difficult exercise, Eragon
mentioned his scrying of the woman. Brom pulled on his beard. “You say she was
imprisoned?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see her face?” asked Brom intently.

“Not very clearly. The lighting was bad, yet I could tell that she was beautiful. It’s
strange; I didn’t have any problem seeing her eyes. And she did look at me.”

Brom shook his head. “As far as I know, it’s impossible for anyone to know if they’re
being scryed upon.”


“Do you know who she might be?” asked Eragon, surprised by the eagerness in his own
voice.

“Not really,” admitted Brom. “If pressed, I suppose I could come up with a few guesses,
but none of them would be very likely. This dream of yours is peculiar. Somehow you
managed to scry in your sleep something that you’d never seen before—without saying
the words of power. Dreams do occasionally touch the spirit realm, but this is different.”

“Perhaps to understand this we should search every prison and dungeon until we find the
woman,” bantered Eragon. He actually thought it would be a good idea. Brom laughed
and rode on.

Brom’s strict training filled nearly every hour as the days slowly blended into weeks.
Because of his splint, Eragon was forced to use his left hand whenever they sparred.
Before long he could duel as well with his left hand as he had with his right.

By the time they crossed the Spine and came to the plains, spring had crept over
Alagaësia, summoning a multitude of flowers. The bare deciduous trees were russet with
buds, while new blades of grass began to push up between last year’s dead stalks. Birds
returned from their winter absence to mate and build nests.

The travelers followed the Toark River southeast, along the edge of the Spine. It grew
steadily as tributaries flowed into it from every side, feeding its bulging girth. When the
river was over a league wide, Brom pointed at the silt islands that dotted the water.
“We’re close to Leona Lake now,” he said. “It’s only about two leagues away.”

“Do you think we can get there before nightfall?” asked Eragon.

“We can try.”

Dusk soon made the trail hard to follow, but the sound of the river at their side guided
them. When the moon rose, the bright disk provided enough light to see what lay ahead.

Leona Lake looked like a thin sheet of silver beaten over the land. The water was so calm
and smooth it did not even seem to be liquid. Aside from a bright strip of moonlight
reflecting off the surface, it was indistinguishable from the ground. Saphira was on the
rocky shore, fanning her wings to dry them. Eragon greeted her and she said,The water is
lovely—deep, cool, and clear.

Maybe I’ll go swimming tomorrow,he responded. They set up camp under a stand of trees
and were soon asleep.


At dawn, Eragon eagerly rushed out to see the lake in daylight. A whitecapped expanse
of water rippled with fan-shaped patterns where wind brushed it. The pure size of it
delighted him. He whooped and ran to the water.Saphira, where are you? Let’s have
some fun!

The moment Eragon climbed onto her, she jumped out over the water. They soared
upward, circling over the lake, but even at that height the opposing shore was not
visible.Would you like to take a bath? Eragon casually asked Saphira.

She grinned wolfishly.Hold on! She locked her wings and sank to the waves, clipping the
crests with her claws. The water sparkled in the sunlight as they sailed over it. Eragon
whooped again. Then Saphira folded her wings and dived into the lake, her head and
neck entering it like a lance.

The water hit Eragon like an icy wall, knocking out his breath and almost tearing him off
Saphira. He held on tightly as she swam to the surface. With three strokes of her feet, she
breached it and sent a burst of shimmering water toward the sky. Eragon gasped and
shook his hair as Saphira slithered across the lake, using her tail as a rudder.

Ready?

Eragon nodded and took a deep breath, tightening his arms. This time they slid gently
under the water. They could see for yards through the unclouded liquid. Saphira twisted
and turned in fantastic shapes, slipping through the water like an eel. Eragon felt as if he
were riding a sea serpent of legend.

Just as his lungs started to cry for air, Saphira arched her back and pointed her head
upward. An explosion of droplets haloed them as she leapt into the air, wings snapping
open. With two powerful flaps she gained altitude.

Wow! That was fantastic,exclaimed Eragon.

Yes,said Saphira happily.Though it’s a pity you can’t hold your breath longer.

Nothing I can do about that,he said, pressing water out of his hair. His clothes were
drenched, and the wind from Saphira’s wings chilled him. He pulled at his splint—his
wrist itched.

Once Eragon was dry, he and Brom saddled the horses and started around Leona Lake in
high spirits while Saphira playfully dived in and out of the water.

Before dinner, Eragon blocked Zar’roc’s edge in preparation for their usual sparring.
Neither he nor Brom moved as they waited for the other to strike first. Eragon inspected


their surroundings for anything that might give him an advantage. A stick near the fire
caught his attention.

Eragon swooped down, grabbed the stick, and hurled it at Brom. The splint got in his
way, though, and Brom easily sidestepped the piece of wood. The old man rushed
forward, swinging his sword. Eragon ducked just as the blade whistled over his head. He
growled and tackled Brom ferociously.

They pitched to the ground, each struggling to stay on top. Eragon rolled to the side and
swept Zar’roc over the ground at Brom’s shins. Brom parried the blow with the hilt of his
sword, then jumped to his feet. Twisting as he stood, Eragon attacked again, guiding
Zar’roc through a complex pattern. Sparks danced from their blades as they struck again
and again. Brom blocked each blow, his face tight with concentration. But Eragon could
tell that he was tiring. The relentless hammering continued as each sought an opening in
the other’s defenses.

Then Eragon felt the battle change. Blow by blow he gained advantage; Brom’s parries
slowed and he lost ground. Eragon easily blocked a stab from Brom. Veins pulsed on the
old man’s forehead and cords bulged in his neck from the effort.

Suddenly confident, Eragon swung Zar’roc faster than ever, weaving a web of steel
around Brom’s sword. With a burst of speed, he smashed the flat of his blade against
Brom’s guard and knocked the sword to the ground. Before Brom could react, Eragon
flicked Zar’roc up to his throat.

They stood panting, the red sword tip resting on Brom’s collarbone. Eragon slowly
lowered his arm and backed away. It was the first time he had bested Brom without
resorting to trickery. Brom picked up his sword and sheathed it. Still breathing hard, he
said, “We’re done for today.”

“But we just started,” said Eragon, startled.

Brom shook his head. “I can teach you nothing more of the sword. Of all the fighters I’ve
met, only three of them could have defeated me like that, and I doubt any of them could
have done it with their left hand.” He smiled ruefully. “I may not be as young as I used to
be, but I can tell that you’re a talented and rare swordsman.”

“Does this mean we’re not going to spar every night?” asked Eragon.

“Oh, you’re not getting out of it,” laughed Brom. “But we’ll go easier now. It’s not as
important if we miss a night here or there.” He wiped his brow. “Just remember, if you
ever have the misfortune to fight an elf—trained or not, female or male—expect to lose.
They, along with dragons and other creatures of magic, are many times stronger than
nature intended. Even the weakest elf could easily overpower you. The same goes for the
Ra’zac—they are not human and tire much more slowly than we do.”


“Is there any way to become their equal?” asked Eragon. He sat cross-legged by Saphira.

You fought well,she said. He smiled.

Brom seated himself with a shrug. “There are a few, but none are available to you now.
Magic will let you defeat all but the strongest enemies. For those you’ll need Saphira’s
help, plus a great deal of luck. Remember, when creatures of magic actually use magic,
they can accomplish things that could kill a human, because of their enhanced abilities.”

“How do you fight with magic?” asked Eragon.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, leaning on an elbow. “Suppose I was attacked by a Shade. How could I
block his magic? Most spells take place instantaneously, which makes it impossible to
react in time. And even if I could, how would I nullify an enemy’s magic? It seems I
would have to know my opponent’s intentionbefore he acted.” He paused. “I just don’t
see how it can be done. Whoever attacked first would win.”

Brom sighed. “What you are talking about—a ‘wizards’ duel,’ if you will—is extremely
dangerous. Haven’t you ever wondered how Galbatorix was able to defeat all of the
Riders with the help of only a dozen or so traitors?”

“I never thought about it,” acknowledged Eragon.

“There are several ways. Some you’ll learn about later, but the main one is that
Galbatorix was, and still is, a master of breaking into people’s minds. You see, in a
wizards’ duel there are strict rules that each side must observe or else both contestants
will die. To begin with, no one uses magic until one of the participants gains access to the
other’s mind.”

Saphira curled her tail comfortably around Eragon and asked,Why wait? By the time an
enemy realizes that you’ve attacked, it will be too late for him to act. Eragon repeated the
question out loud.

Brom shook his head. “No, it won’t. If I were to suddenly use my power against you,
Eragon, you would surely die, but in the brief moment before you were destroyed, there
would be time for a counterattack. Therefore, unless one combatant has a death wish,
neither side attacks until one of them has breached the other’s defenses.”

“Then what happens?” Eragon inquired.

Brom shrugged and said, “Once you’re inside your enemy’s mind, it’s easy enough to
anticipate what he will do and prevent it. Even with that advantage, it’s still possible to
lose if you don’t know how to counteract spells.”


He filled and lit his pipe. “And that requires extraordinarily quick thinking. Before you
can defend yourself, you have to understand the exact nature of the forces directed at you.
If you’re being attacked with heat, you have to know whether it is being conveyed to you
through air, fire, light, or some other medium. Only once that’s known can you combat
the magic by, for instance, chilling the heated material.”

“It sounds difficult.”

“Extremely,” confirmed Brom. A plume of smoke rose from his pipe. “Seldom can
people survive such a duel for more than a few seconds. The enormous amount of effort
and skill required condemns anyone without the proper training to a quick death. Once
you’ve progressed, I’ll start teaching you the necessary methods. In the meantime, if you
ever find yourself facing a wizards’ duel, I suggest you run away as fast as you can.”

THEMIRE OF
DRAS-LEONA

They lunched at Fasaloft, a bustling lakeside village. It was a charming place set on a
rise overlooking the lake. As they ate in the hostel’s common room, Eragon listened
intently to the gossip and was relieved to hear no rumors of him and Saphira.

The trail, now a road, had grown steadily worse over the past two days. Wagon wheels
and iron-shod hooves had conspired to tear up the ground, making many sections
impassable. An increase in travelers forced Saphira to hide during the day and then catch
up with Brom and Eragon at night.

For days they continued south along Leona Lake’s vast shore. Eragon began to wonder if
they would ever get around it, so he was heartened when they met men who said that
Dras-Leona was an easy day’s ride ahead of them.

Eragon rose early the following morning. His fingers twitched with anticipation at the
thought of finally finding the Ra’zac.The two of you must be careful, said Saphira.The
Ra’zac could have spies watching for travelers that fit your description.

We’ll do our best to remain inconspicuous,he assured her.

She lowered her head until their eyes met.Perhaps, but realize that I won’t be able to
protect you as I did with the Urgals. I will be too far away to come to your aid, nor would
I survive long in the narrow streets your kind favor. Follow Brom’s lead in this hunt; he
is sensible.

I know,he said somberly.


Will you go with Brom to the Varden? Once the Ra’zac are killed, he will want to take
you to them. And since Galbatorix will be enraged by the Ra’zac’s death, that may be the
safest thing for us to do.

Eragon rubbed his arms.I don’t want to fight the Empire all the time like the Varden do.
Life is more than constant war. There’ll be time to consider it once the Ra’zac are gone.

Don’t be too sure,she warned, then went to hide herself until night.

The road was clogged with farmers taking their goods to market in Dras-Leona. Brom
and Eragon were forced to slow their horses and wait for wagons that blocked the way.

Although they saw smoke in the distance before noon, it was another league before the
city was clearly visible. Unlike Teirm, a planned city, Dras-Leona was a tangled mess
that sprawled next to Leona Lake. Ramshackle buildings sat on crooked streets, and the
heart of the city was surrounded by a dirty, pale yellow wall of daubed mud.

Several miles east, a mountain of bare rock speared the sky with spires and columns, a
tenebrous nightmare ship. Near-vertical sides rose out of the ground like a jagged piece
of the earth’s bone.

Brom pointed. “Thatis Helgrind. It’s the reason Dras-Leona was originally built. People
are fascinated by it, even though it’s an unhealthy and malevolent thing.” He gestured at
the buildings inside the city’s wall. “We should go to the center of the city first.”

As they crept along the road to Dras-Leona, Eragon saw that the highest building within
the city was a cathedral that loomed behind the walls. It was strikingly similar to
Helgrind, especially when its arches and flanged spires caught the light. “Who do they
worship?” he asked.

Brom grimaced in distaste. “Their prayers go to Helgrind. It’s a cruel religion they
practice. They drink human blood and make flesh offerings. Their priests often lack body
parts because they believe that the more bone and sinew you give up, the less you’re
attached to the mortal world. They spend much of their time arguing about which of
Helgrind’s three peaks is the highest and most important and whether the fourth—and
lowest—should be included in their worship.”

“That’s horrible,” said Eragon, shuddering.

“Yes,” said Brom grimly, “but don’t say that to a believer. You’ll quickly lose a hand in
‘penance.’ ”

At Dras-Leona’s enormous gates, they led the horses through the crush of people. Ten
soldiers were stationed on either side of the gates, casually scanning the crowd. Eragon
and Brom passed into the city without incident.


The houses inside the city wall were tall and thin to compensate for the lack of space.
Those next to the wall were braced against it. Most of the houses hung over the narrow,
winding streets, covering the sky so that it was hard to tell if it was night or day. Nearly
all the buildings were constructed of the same rough brown wood, which darkened the
city even more. The air reeked like a sewer; the streets were filthy.

A group of ragged children ran between the houses, fighting over scraps of bread.
Deformed beggars crouched next to the entrance gates, pleading for money. Their cries
for help were like a chorus of the damned.We don’t even treat animals like this, thought
Eragon, eyes wide with anger. “I won’t stay here,” he said, rebelling against the sight.

“It gets better farther in,” said Brom. “Right now we need to find an inn and form a
strategy. Dras-Leona can be a dangerous place to even the most cautious. I don’t want to
remain on the streets any longer than necessary.”

They forged deeper into Dras-Leona, leaving the squalid entrance behind. As they
entered wealthier parts of the city, Eragon wondered,How can these people live in ease
when the suffering around them is so obvious?

They found lodging at the Golden Globe, which was cheap but not decrepit. A narrow
bed was crammed against one wall of the room, with a rickety table and a basin alongside
it. Eragon took one look at the mattress and said, “I’m sleeping on the floor. There are
probably enough bugs in that thing to eat me alive.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive them of a meal,” said Brom, dropping his bags on the
mattress. Eragon set his own on the floor and pulled off his bow.

“What now?” he asked.

“We find food and beer. After that, sleep. Tomorrow we can start looking for the
Ra’zac.” Before they left the room, Brom warned, “No matter what happens, make sure
that your tongue doesn’t loosen. We’ll have to leave immediately if we’re given away.”

The inn’s food was barely adequate, but its beer was excellent. By the time they stumbled
back to the room, Eragon’s head was buzzing pleasantly. He unrolled his blankets on the
floor and slid under them as Brom tumbled onto the bed.

Just before Eragon fell asleep, he contacted Saphira:We’re going to be here for a few
days, but this shouldn’t take as long as it did at Teirm. When we discover where the
Ra’zac are, you might be able to help us get them. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Right
now I’m not thinking too clearly.

You’ve been drinking,came the accusing thought. Eragon considered it for a moment and
had to agree that she was absolutely right. Her disapproval was clear, but all she said
was,I won’t envy you in the morning.


No,groaned Eragon,but Brom will. He drank twice as much as I did.
TRAIL OFOIL

What was I thinking?wondered Eragon in the morning. His head was pounding and his
tongue felt thick and fuzzy. As a rat skittered under the floor, Eragon winced at the noise.

How are we feeling?asked Saphira smugly.

Eragon ignored her.

A moment later, Brom rolled out of bed with a grumble. He doused his head in cold
water from the basin, then left the room. Eragon followed him into the hallway. “Where
are you going?” he asked.

“To recover.”

“I’ll come.” At the bar, Eragon discovered that Brom’s method of recovery involved
imbibing copious amounts of hot tea and ice water and washing it all down with brandy.
When they returned to the room, Eragon was able to function somewhat better.

Brom belted on his sword and smoothed the wrinkles out of his robe. “The first thing we
need to do is ask some discreet questions. I want to find out where the Seithr oil was
delivered in Dras-Leona and where it was taken from there. Most likely, soldiers or
workmen were involved in transporting it. We have to find those men and get one to
talk.”

They left the Golden Globe and searched for warehouses where the Seithr oil might have
been delivered. Near the center of Dras-Leona, the streets began to slant upward toward a
palace of polished granite. It was built on a rise so that it towered above every building
except the cathedral.

The courtyard was a mosaic of mother-of-pearl, and parts of the walls were inlaid with
gold. Black statues stood in alcoves, with sticks of incense smoking in their cold hands.
Soldiers stationed every four yards watched passersby keenly.

“Who lives there?” asked Eragon in awe.

“Marcus Tábor, ruler of this city. He answers only to the king and his own conscience,
which hasn’t been very active recently,” said Brom. They walked around the palace,
looking at the gated, ornate houses that surrounded it.

By midday they had learned nothing useful, so they stopped for lunch. “This city is too
vast for us to comb it together,” said Brom. “Search on your own. Meet me at the Golden


Globe by dusk.” He glowered at Eragon from under his bushy eyebrows. “I’m trusting
you not to do anything stupid.”

“I won’t,” promised Eragon. Brom handed him some coins, then strode away in the
opposite direction.

Throughout the rest of the day, Eragon talked with shopkeepers and workers, trying to be
as pleasant and charming as he could. His questions led him from one end of the city to
the other and back again. No one seemed to know about the oil. Wherever he went, the
cathedral stared down at him. It was impossible to escape its tall spires.

At last he found a man who had helped ship the Seithr oil and remembered to which
warehouse it had been taken. Eragon excitedly went to look at the building, then returned
to the Golden Globe. It was over an hour before Brom came back, slumped with fatigue.
“Did you find anything?” asked Eragon.

Brom brushed back his white hair. “I heard a great deal of interesting things today, not
the least of which is that Galbatorix will visit Dras-Leona within the week.”

“What?” exclaimed Eragon.

Brom slouched against the wall, the lines on his forehead deepening. “It seems that Tábor
has taken a few too many liberties with his power, so Galbatorix has decided to come
teach him a lesson in humility. It’s the first time the king has left Urû’baen in over ten
years.”

“Do you think he knows of us?” asked Eragon.

“Of course heknows of us, but I’m sure he hasn’t been told our location. If he had, we
would already be in the Ra’zac’s grasp. However, this means that whatever we’re going
to do about the Ra’zac must be accomplished before Galbatorix arrives. We don’t want to
be anywhere within twenty leagues of him. The one thing in our favor is that the Ra’zac
are sure to be here, preparing for his visit.”

“I want to get the Ra’zac,” said Eragon, his fists tightening, “but not if it means fighting
the king. He could probably tear me to pieces.”

That seemed to amuse Brom. “Very good: caution. And you’re right; you wouldn’t stand
a chance against Galbatorix. Now tell me what you learned today. It might confirm what
I heard.”

Eragon shrugged. “It was mostly drivel, but I did talk with a man who knew where the oil
was taken. It’s just an old warehouse. Other than that, I didn’t discover anything useful.”


“My day was a little more fruitful than yours. I heard the same thing you did, so I went to
the warehouse and talked with the workers. It didn’t take much cajoling before they
revealed that the cases of Seithr oil are always sent from the warehouse to the palace.”

“And that’s when you came back here,” finished Eragon.

“No, it’s not! Don’t interrupt. After that, I went to the palace and got myself invited into
the servants’ quarters as a bard. For several hours I wandered about, amusing the maids
and others with songs and poems—and asking questions all the while.” Brom slowly
filled his pipe with tobacco. “It’s really amazing all the things servants find out. Did you
know that one of the earls hasthree mistresses, and they all live in the same wing of the
palace?” He shook his head and lit the pipe. “Aside from the fascinating tidbits, I was
told, quite by accident, where the oil is taken from the palace.”

“And that is . . . ?” asked Eragon impatiently.

Brom puffed on his pipe and blew a smoke ring. “Out of the city, of course. Every full
moon two slaves are sent to the base of Helgrind with a month’s worth of provisions.
Whenever the Seithr oil arrives in Dras-Leona, they send it along with the provisions.
The slaves are never seen again. And the one time someone followed them, he
disappeared too.”

“I thought the Riders demolished the slave trade,” said Eragon.

“Unfortunately, it has flourished under the king’s reign.”

“So the Ra’zac are in Helgrind,” said Eragon, thinking of the rock mountain.

“There or somewhere nearby.”

“If theyare in Helgrind, they’ll be either at the bottom—and protected by a thick stone
door—or higher up where only their flying mounts, or Saphira, can reach. Top or bottom,
their shelter will no doubt be disguised.” He thought for a moment. “If Saphira and I go
flying around Helgrind, the Ra’zac are sure to see us—not to mention all of Dras-Leona.”

“It is a problem,” agreed Brom.

Eragon frowned. “What if we took the place of the two slaves? The full moon isn’t far
off. It would give us a perfect opportunity to get close to the Ra’zac.”

Brom tugged his beard thoughtfully. “That’s chancy at best. If the slaves are killed from a
distance, we’ll be in trouble. We can’t harm the Ra’zac if they aren’t in sight.”

“We don’t know if the slaves are killed at all,” Eragon pointed out.


“I’m sure they are,” said Brom, his face grave. Then his eyes sparkled, and he blew
another smoke ring. “Still, it’s an intriguing idea. If it were done with Saphira hidden
nearby and a . . .” His voice trailed off. “It might work, but we’ll have to move quickly.
With the king coming, there isn’t much time.”

“Should we go to Helgrind and look around? It would be good to see the land in daylight
so we won’t be surprised by any ambushes,” said Eragon.

Brom fingered his staff. “That can be done later. Tomorrow I’ll return to the palace and
figure out how we can replace the slaves. I have to be careful not to arouse suspicion,
though—I could easily be revealed by spies and courtiers who know about the Ra’zac.”

“I can’t believe it; we actually found them,” said Eragon quietly. An image of his dead
uncle and burned farm flashed through his mind. His jaw tightened.

“The toughest part is yet to come, but yes, we’ve done well,” said Brom. “If fortune
smiles on us, you may soon have your revenge and the Varden will be rid of a dangerous
enemy. What comes after that will be up to you.”

Eragon opened his mind and jubilantly told Saphira,We found the Ra’zac’s lair!

Where?He quickly explained what they had discovered.Helgrind, she mused.A fitting
place for them.

Eragon agreed.When we’re done here, maybe we could visit Carvahall.

What is it you want?she asked, suddenly sour.To go back to your previous life? You know
that won’t happen, so stop mooning after it! At a certain point you have to decide what to
commit to. Will you hide for the rest of your life, or will you help the Varden? Those are
the only options left to you, unless you join forces with Galbatorix, which I do not and
never will accept.

Softly, he said, If I must choose, I cast my fate with the Varden, as you well know.

Yes, but sometimes you have to hear yourself say it.She left him to ponder her words.

WoRSHIPERS
OFHELGRIND

Eragon was alone in the room when he woke. Scrawled onto the wall with a charcoal
stick was a note that read:

Eragon,


I will be gone until late tonight. Coins for food are under the mattress. Explore the city,
enjoy yourself, butstay unnoticed!

Brom

P.S. Avoid the palace. Don’t go anywhere without your bow! Keep it strung.
Eragon wiped the wall clean, then retrieved the money from under the bed. He slipped
the bow across his back, thinking,I wish I didn’t have to go armed all the time.

He left the Golden Globe and ambled through the streets, stopping to observe whatever
interested him. There were many intriguing stores, but none quite as exciting as Angela’s
herb shop in Teirm. At times he glared at the dark, claustrophobic houses and wished that
he were free of the city. When he grew hungry, he bought a wedge of cheese and a loaf of
bread and ate them, sitting on a curb.

Later, in a far corner of Dras-Leona, he heard an auctioneer rattling off a list of prices.
Curious, he headed toward the voice and arrived at a wide opening between two
buildings. Ten men stood on a waist-high platform. Arrayed before them was a richly
dressed crowd that was both colorful and boisterous.Where are the goods for sale?
wondered Eragon.

The auctioneer finished his list and motioned for a young man behind the platform to join
him. The man awkwardly climbed up, chains dragging at his hands and feet. “And here
we have our first item,” proclaimed the auctioneer. “A healthy male from the Hadarac
Desert, captured just last month, and in excellent condition. Look at those arms and legs;
he’s strong as a bull! He’d be perfect as a shield bearer, or, if you don’t trust him for that,
hard labor. But let me tell you, lords and ladies, that would be a waste. He’s bright as a
nail, if you can get him to talk a civilized tongue!”

The crowd laughed, and Eragon ground his teeth with fury. His lips started to form a
word that would free the slave, and his arm, newly liberated from the splint, rose. The
mark on his palm shimmered. He was about to release the magic when it struck him,He’d
never get away! The slave would be caught before he reached the city walls. Eragon
would only make the situation worse if he tried to help. He lowered his arm and quietly
cursed.Think! This is how you got into trouble with the Urgals.


He watched helplessly as the slave was sold to a tall, hawk-nosed man. The next slave
was a tiny girl, no more than six years old, wrenched from the arms of her crying mother.
As the auctioneer started the bidding, Eragon forced himself to walk away, rigid with
fury and outrage.

It was several blocks before the weeping was inaudible.I’d like to see a thief try to cut my
purse right now, he thought grimly, almost wishing it would happen. Frustrated, he
punched a nearby wall, bruising his knuckles.

That’s the sort of thing I could stop by fighting the Empire,he realized. With Saphira by
my side I could free those slaves. I’ve been graced with special powers; it would be
selfish of me not to use them for the benefit of others. If I don’t, I might as well not be a
Rider at all.

It was a while before he took stock of his bearings and was surprised to find himself
before the cathedral. Its twisted spires were covered with statues and scrollwork. Snarling
gargoyles crouched along the eaves. Fantastic beasts writhed on the walls, and heroes and
kings marched along their bottom edges, frozen in cold marble. Ribbed arches and tall
stained-glass windows lined the cathedral’s sides, along with columns of differing sizes.
A lonely turret helmed the building like a mast.

Recessed in shadow at the cathedral’s front was an iron-bound door inlaid with a row of
silver script that Eragon recognized as the ancient language. As best he could tell, it
read:May thee who enter here understand thine impermanence and forget thine
attachments to that which is beloved.

The entire building sent a shiver down Eragon’s spine. There was something menacing
about it, as if it were a predator crouched in the city, waiting for its next victim.

A broad row of steps led to the cathedral’s entrance. Eragon solemnly ascended them and
stopped before the door.I wonder if I can go in? Almost guiltily he pushed on the door. It
swung open smoothly, gliding on oiled hinges. He stepped inside.

The silence of a forgotten tomb filled the empty cathedral. The air was chill and dry. Bare
walls extended to a vaulted ceiling that was so high Eragon felt no taller than an ant.
Stained-glass windows depicting scenes of anger, hate, and remorse pierced the walls,
while spectral beams of light washed sections of the granite pews with transparent hues,
leaving the rest in shadow. His hands were shaded a deep blue.

Between the windows stood statues with rigid, pale eyes. He returned their stern gazes,
then slowly trod up the center row, afraid to break the quiet. His leather boots padded
noiselessly on the polished stone floor.

The altar was a great slab of stone devoid of adornment. A solitary finger of light fell
upon it, illuminating motes of golden dust floating in the air. Behind the altar, the pipes


of a wind organ pierced the ceiling and opened themselves to the elements. The
instrument would play its music only when a gale rocked Dras-Leona.

Out of respect, Eragon knelt before the altar and bowed his head. He did not pray but
paid homage to the cathedral itself. The sorrows of the lives it had witnessed, as well as
the unpleasantness of the elaborate pageantry that played out between its walls, emanated
from the stones. It was a forbidding place, bare and cold. In that chilling touch, though,
came a glimpse of eternity and perhaps the powers that lay there.

Finally Eragon inclined his head and rose. Calm and grave, he whispered words to
himself in the ancient language, then turned to leave. He froze. His heart jumped,
hammering like a drum.

The Ra’zac stood at the cathedral’s entrance, watching him. Their swords were drawn,
keen edges bloody in a crimson light. A sibilant hiss came from the smaller Ra’zac.
Neither of them moved.

Rage welled up in Eragon. He had chased the Ra’zac for so many weeks that the pain of
their murderous deed had dulled within him. But his vengeance was at hand. His wrath
exploded like a volcano, fueled even more by his pent-up fury at the slaves’ plight. A roar
broke from his lips, echoing like a thunderstorm as he snatched his bow from his back.
Deftly, he fit an arrow to the string and loosed it. Two more followed an instant later.

The Ra’zac leapt away from the arrows with inhuman swiftness. They hissed as they ran
up the aisle between the pews, cloaks flapping like raven wings. Eragon reached for
another arrow, but caution stayed his hand.If they knew where to find me, Brom is in
danger as well! I must warn him! Then, to Eragon’s horror, a line of soldiers filed into
the cathedral, and he glimpsed a field of uniforms jostling outside the doorway.

Eragon gazed hungrily at the charging Ra’zac, then swept around, searching for means of
escape. A vestibule to the left of the altar caught his attention. He bounded through the
archway and dashed down a corridor that led to a priory with a belfry. The patter of the
Ra’zac’s feet behind him made him quicken his pace until the hall abruptly ended with a
closed door.

He pounded against it, trying to break it open, but the wood was too strong. The Ra’zac
were nearly upon him. Frantic, he sucked in his breath and barked, “Jierda!” With a flash,
the door splintered into pieces and fell to the floor. Eragon jumped into the small room
and continued running.

He sped through several chambers, startling a group of priests. Shouts and curses
followed him. The priory bell tolled an alarm. Eragon dodged through a kitchen, passed a
pair of monks, then slipped through a side door. He skidded to stop in a garden
surrounded by a high brick wall devoid of handholds. There were no other exits.


Eragon turned to leave, but there was a low hiss as the Ra’zac shouldered aside the door.
Desperate, he rushed at the wall, arms pumping. Magic could not help him here—if he
used it to break through the wall, he would be too tired to run.

He jumped. Even with his arms outstretched, only his fingertips cleared the edge of the
wall. The rest of his body smashed against the bricks, driving out his breath. Eragon
gasped and hung there, struggling not to fall. The Ra’zac prowled into the garden,
swinging their heads from side to side like wolfhounds sniffing for prey.

Eragon sensed their approach and heaved with his arms. His shoulders shrieked with pain
as he scrambled onto the wall and dropped to the other side. He stumbled, then regained
his balance and darted down an alley just as the Ra’zac leapt over the wall. Galvanized,
Eragon put on another burst of speed.

He ran for over a mile before he had to stop and catch his breath. Unsure if he had lost
the Ra’zac, he found a crowded marketplace and dived under a parked wagon.How did
they find me? he wondered, panting.They shouldn’t have known where I was . . . unless
something happened to Brom! He reached out with his mind to Saphira and said,The
Ra’zac found me. We’re all in danger! Check if Brom’s all right. If he is, warn him and
have him meet me at the inn. And be ready to fly here as fast as you can. We may need
your help to escape.

She was silent, then said curtly,He’ll meet you at the inn. Don’t stop moving; you’re in
great danger.

“Don’t I know it,” muttered Eragon as he rolled out from under the wagon. He hurried
back to the Golden Globe, quickly packed their belongings, saddled the horses, then led
them to the street. Brom soon arrived, staff in hand, scowling dangerously. He swung
onto Snowfire and asked, “What happened?”

“I was in the cathedral when the Ra’zac just appeared behind me,” said Eragon, climbing
onto Cadoc. “I ran back as fast as possible, but they could be here at any second. Saphira
will join us once we’re out of Dras-Leona.”

“We have to get outside the city walls before they close the gates, if they haven’t
already,” said Brom. “If they’re shut, it’ll be nigh impossible for us to leave. Whatever
you do, don’t get separated from me.” Eragon stiffened as ranks of soldiers marched
down one end of the street.

Brom cursed, lashed Snowfire with his reins, and galloped away. Eragon bent low over
Cadoc and followed. They nearly crashed several times during the wild, hazardous ride,
plunging through masses of people that clogged the streets as they neared the city wall.
When the gates finally came into view, Eragon pulled on Cadoc’s reins with dismay. The
gates were already half closed, and a double line of pikemen blocked their way.

“They’ll cut us to pieces!” he exclaimed.


“We have to try and make it,” said Brom, his voice hard. “I’ll deal with the men, but you
have to keep the gates open for us.” Eragon nodded, gritted his teeth, and dug his heels
into Cadoc.

They plowed toward the line of unwavering soldiers, who lowered their pikes toward the
horses’ chests and braced the weapons against the ground. Though the horses snorted
with fear, Eragon and Brom held them in place. Eragon heard the soldiers shout but kept
his attention on the gates inching shut.

As they neared the sharp pikes, Brom raised his hand and spoke. The words struck with
precision; the soldiers fell to each side as if their legs had been cut out from under them.
The gap between the gates shrank by the second. Hoping that the effort would not prove
too much for him, Eragon drew on his power and shouted, “Du grind huildr!”

A deep grating sound emanated from the gates as they trembled, then ground to a stop.
The crowd and guards fell silent, staring with amazement. With a clatter of the horses’
hooves, Brom and Eragon shot out from behind Dras-Leona’s wall. The instant they were
free, Eragon released the gates. They shuddered, then boomed shut.

He swayed with the expected fatigue but managed to keep riding. Brom watched him
with concern. Their flight continued through the outskirts of Dras-Leona as alarm
trumpets sounded on the city wall. Saphira was waiting for them by the edge of the city,
hidden behind some trees. Her eyes burned; her tail whipped back and forth. “Go, ride
her,” said Brom. “And this time stay in the air, no matter what happens to me. I’ll head
south. Fly nearby; I don’t care if Saphira’s seen.” Eragon quickly mounted Saphira. As
the ground dwindled away beneath him, he watched Brom gallop along the road.

Are you all right?asked Saphira.

Yes,said Eragon.But only because we were very lucky.

A puff of smoke blew from her nostrils.All the time we’ve spent searching for the Ra’zac
was useless.

I know,he said, letting his head sag against her scales.If the Ra’zac had been the only
enemies back there, I would have stayed and fought, but with all the soldiers on their
side, it was hardly a fair match!

You understand that there will be talk of us now? This was hardly an unobtrusive escape.
Evading the Empire will be harder than ever.There was an edge to her voice that he was
unaccustomed to.

I know.

They flew low and fast over the road. Leona Lake receded behind them; the land became
dry and rocky and filled with tough, sharp bushes and tall cactuses. Clouds darkened the


sky. Lightning flashed in the distance. As the wind began to howl, Saphira glided steeply
down to Brom. He stopped the horses and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“The wind’s too strong.”

“It’s not that bad,” objected Brom.

“It is up there,” said Eragon, pointing at the sky.

Brom swore and handed him Cadoc’s reins. They trotted away with Saphira following on
foot, though on the ground she had difficulty keeping up with the horses.

The gale grew stronger, flinging dirt through the air and twisting like a dervish. They
wrapped scarves around their heads to protect their eyes. Brom’s robe flapped in the wind
while his beard whipped about as if it had a life of its own. Though it would make them
miserable, Eragon hoped it would rain so their tracks would be obliterated.

Soon darkness forced them to stop. With only the stars to guide them, they left the road
and made camp behind two boulders. It was too dangerous to light a fire, so they ate cold
food while Saphira sheltered them from the wind.

After the sparse dinner, Eragon asked bluntly, “How did they find us?”

Brom started to light his pipe, but thought better of it and put it away. “One of the palace
servants warned me there were spies among them. Somehow word of me and my
questions must have reached Tábor . . . and through him, the Ra’zac.”

“We can’t go back to Dras-Leona, can we?” asked Eragon.

Brom shook his head. “Not for a few years.”

Eragon held his head between his hands. “Then should we draw the Ra’zac out? If we let
Saphira be seen, they’ll come running to wherever she is.”

“And when they do, there will be fifty soldiers with them,” said Brom. “At any rate, this
isn’t the time to discuss it. Right now we have to concentrate on staying alive. Tonight
will be the most dangerous because the Ra’zac will be hunting us in the dark, when they
are strongest. We’ll have to trade watches until morning.”

“Right,” said Eragon, standing. He hesitated and squinted. His eyes had caught a flicker
of movement, a small patch of color that stood out from the surrounding nightscape. He
stepped toward the edge of their camp, trying to see it better.

“What is it?” asked Brom as he unrolled his blankets.


Eragon stared into the darkness, then turned back. “I don’t know. I thought I saw
something. It must have been a bird.” Pain erupted in the back of his head, and Saphira
roared. Then Eragon toppled to the ground, unconscious.

THERA’ZAC’SREVENGE

Adull throbbing roused Eragon. Every time blood pulsed through his head it brought a
fresh wave of pain. He cracked his eyes open and winced; tears rushed to his eyes as he
looked directly into a bright lantern. He blinked and looked away. When he tried to sit
up, he realized that his hands were tied behind his back.

He turned lethargically and saw Brom’s arms. Eragon was relieved to see that they were
bound together. Why was that? He struggled to figure it out until the thought suddenly
came to him,They wouldn’t tie up a dead man! But then who were “they”? He swiveled
his head further, then stopped as a pair of black boots entered his vision.

Eragon looked up, right into the cowled face of a Ra’zac. Fear jolted through him. He
reached for the magic and started to voice a word that would kill the Ra’zac, but then
halted, puzzled. He could not remember the word. Frustrated, he tried again, only to feel
it slip out of his grasp.

Above him the Ra’zac laughed chillingly. “The drug is working, yesss? I think you will
not be bothering us again.”

There was a rattle off to the left, and Eragon was appalled to see the second Ra’zac fit a
muzzle over Saphira’s head. Her wings were pinioned to her sides by black chains; there
were shackles on her legs. Eragon tried to contact her, but felt nothing.

“She was most cooperative once we threatened to kill you,” hissed the Ra’zac. Squatting
by the lantern, he rummaged through Eragon’s bags, examining and discarding various
items until he removed Zar’roc. “What a pretty thing for one so . . . insignificant. Maybe I
will keep it.” He leaned closer and sneered, “Or maybe, if you behave, our master will let
you polish it.” His moist breath smelled like raw meat.

Then he turned the sword over in his hands and screeched as he saw the symbol on the
scabbard. His companion rushed over. They stood over the sword, hissing and clicking.
At last they faced Eragon. “You will serve our master very well, yesss.”

Eragon forced his thick tongue to form words: “If I do, I will kill you.”

They chuckled coldly. “Oh no, we are too valuable. But you . . . you aredisposable. ”A
deep snarl came from Saphira; smoke roiled from her nostrils. The Ra’zac did not seem
to care.


Their attention was diverted when Brom groaned and rolled onto his side. One of the
Ra’zac grabbed his shirt and thrust him effortlessly into the air. “It’sss wearing off.”

“Give him more.”

“Let’sss just kill him,” said the shorter Ra’zac. “He has caused us much grief.”

The taller one ran his finger down his sword. “A good plan. But remember, the king’s
instructions were to keep themalive. ”

“We can sssay he was killed when we captured them.”

“And what of thisss one?” the Ra’zac asked, pointing his sword at Eragon. “If he
talksss?”

His companion laughed and drew a wicked dagger. “He would not dare.”

There was a long silence, then, “Agreed.”

They dragged Brom to the center of the camp and shoved him to his knees. Brom sagged
to one side. Eragon watched with growing fear.I have to get free! He wrenched at the
ropes, but they were too strong to break. “None of that now,” said the tall Ra’zac, poking
him with a sword. He nosed the air and sniffed; something seemed to trouble him.

The other Ra’zac growled, yanked Brom’s head back, and swept the dagger toward his
exposed throat. At that very moment a low buzz sounded, followed by the Ra’zac’s howl.
An arrow protruded from his shoulder. The Ra’zac nearest Eragon dropped to the ground,
barely avoiding a second arrow. He scuttled to his wounded companion, and they glared
into the darkness, hissing angrily. They made no move to stop Brom as he blearily
staggered upright. “Get down!” cried Eragon.

Brom wavered, then tottered toward Eragon. As more arrows hissed into the camp from
the unseen attackers, the Ra’zac rolled behind some boulders. There was a lull, then
arrows came from the opposite direction. Caught by surprise, the Ra’zac reacted slowly.
Their cloaks were pierced in several places, and a shattered arrow buried itself in one’s
arm.

With a wild cry, the smaller Ra’zac fled toward the road, kicking Eragon viciously in the
side as he passed. His companion hesitated, then grabbed the dagger from the ground and
raced after him. As he left the camp, he hurled the knife at Eragon.

A strange light suddenly burned in Brom’s eyes. He threw himself in front of Eragon, his
mouth open in a soundless snarl. The dagger struck him with a soft thump, and he landed
heavily on his shoulder. His head lolled limply.


“No!” screamed Eragon, though he was doubled over in pain. He heard footsteps, then
his eyes closed and he knew no more.

MURTAGH

For a long while, Eragon was aware only of the burning in his side. Each breath was
painful. It felt as though he had been the one stabbed, not Brom. His sense of time was
skewed; it was hard to tell if weeks had gone by, or only a few minutes. When
consciousness finally came to him, he opened his eyes and peered curiously at a campfire
several feet away. His hands were still tied together, but the drug must have worn off
because he could think clearly again.Saphira, are you injured?

No, but you and Brom are.She was crouched over Eragon, wings spread protectively on
either side.

Saphira, you didn’t make that fire, did you? And you couldn’t have gotten out of those
chains by yourself.

No.

I didn’t think so.Eragon struggled to his knees and saw a young man sitting on the far
side of the fire.

The stranger, dressed in battered clothes, exuded a calm, assured air. In his hands was a
bow, at his side a long hand-and-a-half sword. A white horn bound with silver fittings lay
in his lap, and the hilt of a dagger protruded from his boot. His serious face and fierce
eyes were framed by locks of brown hair. He appeared to be a few years older than
Eragon and perhaps an inch or so taller. Behind him a gray war-horse was picketed. The
stranger watched Saphira warily.

“Who are you?” asked Eragon, taking a shallow breath.

The man’s hands tightened on his bow. “Murtagh.” His voice was low and controlled, but
curiously emotional.

Eragon pulled his hands underneath his legs so they were in front of him. He clenched his
teeth as his side flared with pain. “Why did you help us?”

“You aren’t the only enemies the Ra’zac have. I was tracking them.”

“You know who they are?”

“Yes.”


Eragon concentrated on the ropes that bound his wrists and reached for the magic. He
hesitated, aware of Murtagh’s eyes on him, then decided it didn’t matter. “Jierda!” he
grunted. The ropes snapped off his wrists. He rubbed his hands to get the blood flowing.

Murtagh sucked in his breath. Eragon braced himself and tried to stand, but his ribs
seared with agony. He fell back, gasping between clenched teeth. Murtagh tried to come
to his aid, but Saphira stopped him with a growl. “I would have helped you earlier, but
your dragon wouldn’t let me near you.”

“Her name’s Saphira,” said Eragon tightly.Now let him by! I can’t do this alone. Besides,
he saved our lives. Saphira growled again, but folded her wings and backed away.
Murtagh eyed her flatly as he stepped forward.

He grasped Eragon’s arm, gently pulling him to his feet. Eragon yelped and would have
fallen without support. They went to the fire, where Brom lay on his back. “How is he?”
asked Eragon.

“Bad,” said Murtagh, lowering him to the ground. “The knife went right between his ribs.
You can look at him in a minute, but first we’d better see how much damage the Ra’zac
did to you.” He helped Eragon remove his shirt, then whistled. “Ouch!”

“Ouch,” agreed Eragon weakly. A blotchy bruise extended down his left side. The red,
swollen skin was broken in several places. Murtagh put a hand on the bruise and pressed
lightly. Eragon yelled, and Saphira growled a warning.

Murtagh glanced at Saphira as he grabbed a blanket. “I think you have some broken ribs.
It’s hard to tell, but at least two, maybe more. You’re lucky you’re not coughing up
blood.” He tore the blanket into strips and bound Eragon’s chest.

Eragon slipped the shirt back on. “Yes . . . I’m lucky.” He took a shallow breath, sidled
over to Brom, and saw that Murtagh had cut open the side of his robe to bandage the
wound. With trembling fingers, he undid the bandage.

“I wouldn’t do that,” warned Murtagh. “He’ll bleed to death without it.”

Eragon ignored him and pulled the cloth away from Brom’s side. The wound was short
and thin, belying its depth. Blood streamed out of it. As he had learned when Garrow was
injured, a wound inflicted by the Ra’zac was slow to heal.

He peeled off his gloves while furiously searching his mind for the healing words Brom
had taught him.Help me, Saphira, he implored.I am too weak to do this alone.

Saphira crouched next to him, fixing her eyes on Brom.I am here, Eragon. As her mind
joined his, new strength infused his body. Eragon drew upon their combined power and
focused it on the words. His hand trembled as he held it over the wound. “Waíse heill!”


he said. His palm glowed, and Brom’s skin flowed together, as if it had never been
broken. Murtagh watched the entire process.

It was over quickly. As the light vanished, Eragon sat, feeling sick.We’ve never done that
before, he said.

Saphira nodded.Together we can cast spells that are beyond either of us.

Murtagh examined Brom’s side and asked, “Is he completely healed?”

“I can only mend what is on the surface. I don’t know enough to fix whatever’s damaged
inside. It’s up to him now. I’ve done all I can.” Eragon closed his eyes for a moment,
utterly weary. “My . . . my head seems to be floating in clouds.”

“You probably need to eat,” said Murtagh. “I’ll make soup.”

While Murtagh fixed the meal, Eragon wondered who this stranger was. His sword and
bow were of the finest make, as was his horn. Either he was a thief or accustomed to
money—and lots of it.Why was he hunting the Ra’zac? What have they done to make him
an enemy? I wonder if he works for the Varden?

Murtagh handed him a bowl of broth. Eragon spooned it down and asked, “How long has
it been since the Ra’zac fled?”
“A few hours.”


“We have to go before they return with reinforcements.”
“You might be able to travel,” said Murtagh, then gestured at Brom, “but he can’t. You
don’t get up and ride away after being stabbed between the ribs.”


If we make a litter, can you carry Brom with your claws like you did with
Garrow?Eragon asked Saphira.

Yes, but landing will be awkward.

As long as it can be done.Eragon said to Murtagh, “Saphira can carry him, but we need a
litter. Can you make one? I don’t have the strength.”

“Wait here.” Murtagh left the camp, sword drawn. Eragon hobbled to his bags and picked
up his bow from where it had been thrown by the Ra’zac. He strung it, found his quiver,
then retrieved Zar’roc, which lay hidden in shadow. Last, he got a blanket for the litter.

Murtagh returned with two saplings. He laid them parallel on the ground, then lashed the
blanket between the poles. After he carefully tied Brom to the makeshift litter, Saphira


grasped the saplings and laboriously took flight. “I never thought I would see a sight like
that,” Murtagh said, an odd note in his voice.

As Saphira disappeared into the dark sky, Eragon limped to Cadoc and hoisted himself
painfully into the saddle. “Thanks for helping us. You should leave now. Ride as far
away from us as you can. You’ll be in danger if the Empire finds you with us. We can’t
protect you, and I wouldn’t see harm come to you on our account.”

“A pretty speech,” said Murtagh, grinding out the fire, “but where will you go? Is there a
place nearby that you can rest in safety?”

“No,” admitted Eragon.

Murtagh’s eyes glinted as he fingered the hilt of his sword. “In that case, I think I’ll
accompany you until you’re out of danger. I’ve no better place to be. Besides, if I stay
with you, I might get another shot at the Ra’zac sooner than if I were on my own.
Interesting things are bound to happen around a Rider.”

Eragon wavered, unsure if he should accept help from a complete stranger. Yet he was
unpleasantly aware that he was too weak to force the issue either way.If Murtagh proves
untrustworthy, Saphira can always chase him away. “Join us if you wish.” He shrugged.

Murtagh nodded and mounted his gray war-horse. Eragon grabbed Snowfire’s reins and
rode away from the camp, into the wilderness. An oxbow moon provided wan light, but
he knew that it would only make it easier for the Ra’zac to track them.

Though Eragon wanted to question Murtagh further, he kept silent, conserving his energy
for riding. Near dawn Saphira said,I must stop. My wings are tired and Brom needs
attention. I discovered a good place to stay, about two miles ahead of where you are.

They found her sitting at the base of a broad sandstone formation that curved out of the
ground like a great hill. Its sides were pocked with caves of varying sizes. Similar domes
were scattered across the land. Saphira looked pleased with herself.I found a cave that
can’t be seen from the ground. It’s large enough for all of us, including the horses.
Follow me. She turned and climbed up the sandstone, her sharp claws digging into the
rock. The horses had difficulty, as their shod hooves could not grip the sandstone. Eragon
and Murtagh had to pull and shove the animals for almost an hour before they managed
to reach the cave.

The cavern was a good hundred feet long and more than twenty feet wide, yet it had a
small opening that would protect them from bad weather and prying eyes. Darkness
swallowed the far end, clinging to the walls like mats of soft black wool.

“Impressive,” said Murtagh. “I’ll gather wood for a fire.” Eragon hurried to Brom.
Saphira had set him on a small rock ledge at the rear of the cave. Eragon clasped Brom’s


limp hand and anxiously watched his craggy face. After a few minutes, he sighed and
went to the fire Murtagh had built.

They ate quietly, then tried to give Brom water, but the old man would not drink.
Stymied, they spread out their bedrolls and slept.

LEGACY OF ARIDER

Wake up, Eragon.He stirred and groaned.

I need your help.Something is wrong!Eragon tried to ignore the voice and return to sleep.

Arise!

Go away,he grumbled.

Eragon!A bellow rang in the cave. He bolted upright, fumbling for his bow. Saphira was
crouched over Brom, who had rolled off the ledge and was thrashing on the cave floor.
His face was contorted in a grimace; his fists were clenched. Eragon rushed over, fearing
the worst.

“Help me hold him down. He’s going to hurt himself!” he cried to Murtagh, clasping
Brom’s arms. His side burned sharply as the old man spasmed. Together they restrained
Brom until his convulsions ceased. Then they carefully returned him to the ledge.

Eragon touched Brom’s forehead. The skin was so hot that the heat could be felt an inch
away. “Get me water and a cloth,” he said worriedly. Murtagh brought them, and Eragon
gently bathed Brom’s face, trying to cool him down. With the cave quiet again, he
noticed the sun shining outside.How long did we sleep? he asked Saphira.

A good while. I’ve been watching Brom for most of that time. He was fine until a minute
ago when he started thrashing. I woke you once he fell to the floor.

He stretched, wincing as his ribs twinged painfully. A hand suddenly gripped his
shoulder. Brom’s eyes snapped opened and fixed a glassy stare on Eragon. “You!” he
gasped. “Bring me the wineskin!”

“Brom?” exclaimed Eragon, pleased to hear him talk. “You shouldn’t drink wine; it’ll
only make you worse.”

“Bring it, boy—just bring it . . . ,” sighed Brom. His hand slipped off Eragon’s shoulder.

“I’ll be right back—hold on.” Eragon dashed to the saddlebags and rummaged through
them frantically. “I can’t find it!” he cried, looking around desperately.


“Here, take mine,” said Murtagh, holding out a leather skin.

Eragon grabbed it and returned to Brom. “I have the wine,” he said, kneeling. Murtagh
retreated to the cave’s mouth so they could have privacy.

Brom’s next words were faint and indistinct. “Good . . .” He moved his arm weakly.
“Now . . . wash my right hand with it.”

“What—” Eragon started to ask.

“No questions! I haven’t time.” Mystified, Eragon unstoppered the wineskin and poured
the liquid onto Brom’s palm. He rubbed it into the old man’s skin, spreading it around the
fingers and over the back of the hand. “More,” croaked Brom. Eragon splashed wine onto
his hand again. He scrubbed vigorously as a brown dye floated off Brom’s palm, then
stopped, his mouth agape with amazement. There on Brom’s palm was the gedwëy
ignasia.

“You’re a Rider?” he asked incredulously.

A painful smile flickered on Brom’s face. “Once upon a time that was true . . . but no
more. When I was young . . . younger than you are now, I was chosen . . . chosen by the
Riders to join their ranks. While they trained me, I became friends with another
apprentice . . . Morzan, before he was a Forsworn.” Eragon gasped—that had been over a
hundred years ago. “But then he betrayed us to Galbatorix . . . and in the fighting at Dorú
Areaba—Vroengard’s city—my young dragon was killed. Her name . . . was Saphira.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Eragon softly.

Brom laughed. “Because . . . there was no need to.” He stopped. His breathing was
labored; his hands were clenched. “I am old, Eragon . . . so old. Though my dragon was
killed, my life has been longer than most. You don’t know what it is to reach my age,
look back, and realize that you don’t remember much of it; then to look forward and
know that many years still lie ahead of you. . . . After all this time I still grieve for my
Saphira . . . and hate Galbatorix for what he tore from me.” His feverish eyes drilled into
Eragon as he said fiercely, “Don’t let that happen to you. Don’t! Guard Saphira with your
life, for without her it’s hardly worth living.”

“You shouldn’t talk like this. Nothing’s going to happen to her,” said Eragon, worried.

Brom turned his head to the side. “Perhaps I am rambling.” His gaze passed blindly over
Murtagh, then he focused on Eragon. Brom’s voice grew stronger. “Eragon! I cannot last
much longer. This . . . this is a grievous wound; it saps my strength. I have not the energy
to fight it. . . . Before I go, will you take my blessing?”

“Everything will be all right,” said Eragon, tears in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”


“It is the way of things . . . I must. Will you take my blessing?” Eragon bowed his head
and nodded, overcome. Brom placed a trembling hand on his brow. “Then I give it to
you. May the coming years bring you great happiness.” He motioned for Eragon to bend
closer. Very quietly, he whispered seven words from the ancient language, then even
more softly told him what they meant. “That is all I can give you. . . . Use them only in
great need.”

Brom blindly turned his eyes to the ceiling. “And now,” he murmured, “for the greatest
adventure of all. . . .”

Weeping, Eragon held his hand, comforting him as best he could. His vigil was
unwavering and steadfast, unbroken by food or drink. As the long hours passed, a gray
pallor crept over Brom, and his eyes slowly dimmed. His hands grew icy; the air around
him took on an evil humor. Powerless to help, Eragon could only watch as the Ra’zac’s
wound took its toll.

The evening hours were young and the shadows long when Brom suddenly stiffened.
Eragon called his name and cried for Murtagh’s help, but they could do nothing. As a
barren silence dampened the air, Brom locked his eyes with Eragon’s. Then contentment
spread across the old man’s face, and a whisper of breath escaped his lips. And so it was
that Brom the storyteller died.

With shaking fingers, Eragon closed Brom’s eyes and stood. Saphira raised her head
behind him and roared mournfully at the sky, keening her lamentation. Tears rolled down
Eragon’s cheeks as a sense of horrible loss bled through him. Haltingly, he said, “We
have to bury him.”

“We might be seen,” warned Murtagh.

“I don’t care!”

Murtagh hesitated, then bore Brom’s body out of the cave, along with his sword and staff.
Saphira followed them. “To the top,” Eragon said thickly, indicating the crown of the
sandstone hill.

“We can’t dig a grave out of stone,” objected Murtagh.

“I can do it.”

Eragon climbed onto the smooth hilltop, struggling because of his ribs. There, Murtagh
lay Brom on the stone.

Eragon wiped his eyes and fixed his gaze on the sandstone. Gesturing with his hand, he
said, “Moi stenr!” The stone rippled. It flowed like water, forming a body-length


depression in the hilltop. Molding the sandstone like wet clay, he raised waist-high walls
around it.

They laid Brom inside the unfinished sandstone vault with his staff and sword. Stepping
back, Eragon again shaped the stone with magic. It joined over Brom’s motionless face
and flowed upward into a tall faceted spire. As a final tribute, Eragon set runes into the
stone:

HERELIESBROM

Who was a Dragon Rider

And like a father

To me.

May his name live on in glory.

Then he bowed his head and mourned freely. He stood like a living statue until evening,
when light faded from the land.

That night he dreamed of the imprisoned woman again.

He could tell that something was wrong with her. Her breathing was irregular, and she
shook—whether from cold or pain, he did not know. In the semidarkness of the cell, the
only thing clearly illuminated was her hand, which hung over the edge of the cot. A dark
liquid dripped from the tips of her fingers. Eragon knew it was blood.

DIAMONDTOMB

When Eragon woke, his eyes were gritty, his body stiff. The cave was empty except for
the horses. The litter was gone; no sign of Brom remained. He walked to the entrance and
sat on the pitted sandstone.So the witch Angela was correct—there was a death in my
future, he thought, staring bleakly at the land. The topaz sun brought a desert heat to the
early morning.

A tear slid down his listless face and evaporated in the sunlight, leaving a salty crust on
his skin. He closed his eyes and absorbed the warmth, emptying his mind. With a
fingernail, he aimlessly scratched the sandstone. When he looked, he saw that he had
writtenWhy me?


He was still there when Murtagh climbed up to the cave, carrying a pair of rabbits.
Without a word he seated himself by Eragon. “How are you?” he asked.

“Very ill.”

Murtagh considered him thoughtfully. “Will you recover?” Eragon shrugged. After a few
minutes of reflection, Murtagh said, “I dislike asking this at such a time, but I must know
. . . Is your Bromthe Brom? The one who helped steal a dragon egg from the king, chased
it across the Empire, and killed Morzan in a duel? I heard you say his name, and I read
the inscription you put on his grave, but I must know for certain, Was that he?”

“It was,” said Eragon softly. A troubled expression settled on Murtagh’s face. “How do
you know all that? You talk about things that are secret to most, and you were trailing the
Ra’zac right when we needed help. Are you one of the Varden?”

Murtagh’s eyes became inscrutable orbs. “I’m running away, like you.” There was
restrained sorrow in his words. “I do not belong to either the Varden or the Empire. Nor
do I owe allegiance to any man but myself. As for my rescuing you, I will admit that I’ve
heard whispered tales of a new Rider and reasoned that by following the Ra’zac I might
discover if they were true.”

“I thought you wanted to kill the Ra’zac,” said Eragon.

Murtagh smiled grimly. “I do, but if I had, I never would have met you.”

But Brom would still be alive. . . . I wish he were here. He would know whether to trust
Murtagh.Eragon remembered how Brom had sensed Trevor’s intentions in Daret and
wondered if he could do the same with Murtagh. He reached for Murtagh’s
consciousness, but his probe abruptly ran into an iron-hard wall, which he tried to
circumvent. Murtagh’s entire mind was fortified.How did he learn to do that? Brom said
that few people, if any, could keep others out of their mind without training. So who is
Murtagh to have this ability ? Pensive and lonely, Eragon asked, “Where is Saphira?”

“I don’t know,” said Murtagh. “She followed me for a time when I went hunting, then
flew off on her own. I haven’t seen her since before noon.” Eragon rocked onto his feet
and returned to the cave. Murtagh followed. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not sure.”And I don’t want to think about it either. He rolled up his blankets and tied
them to Cadoc’s saddlebags. His ribs hurt. Murtagh went to prepare the rabbits. As
Eragon shifted things in his bags, he uncovered Zar’roc. The red sheath glinted brightly.
He took out the sword . . . weighed it in his hands.

He had never carried Zar’roc nor used it in combat—except when he and Brom had
sparred—because he had not wanted people to see it. That concerned Eragon no more.
The Ra’zac had seemed surprised and frightened by the sword; that was more than
enough reason for him to wear it. With a shudder he pulled off his bow and belted on


Zar’roc.From this moment on, I’ll live by the sword. Let the whole world see what I am. I
have no fear. I am a Rider now, fully and completely.

He sorted through Brom’s bags but found only clothes, a few odd items, and a small
pouch of coins. Eragon took the map of Alagaësia and put the bags away, then crouched
by the fire. Murtagh’s eyes narrowed as he looked up from the rabbit he was skinning.
“That sword. May I see it?” he asked, wiping his hands.

Eragon hesitated, reluctant to relinquish the weapon for even a moment, then nodded.
Murtagh examined the symbol on the blade intently. His face darkened. “Where did you
get this?”

“Brom gave it to me. Why?”

Murtagh shoved the sword back and crossed his arms angrily. He was breathing hard.
“That sword,” he said with emotion, “was once as well known as its owner. The last
Rider to carry it was Morzan—a brutal, savage man. I thought you were a foe of the
Empire, yet here I find you bearing one of the Forsworn’s bloody swords!”

Eragon stared at Zar’roc with shock. He realized that Brom must have taken it from
Morzan after they fought in Gil’ead. “Brom never told me where it came from,” he said
truthfully. “I had no idea it was Morzan’s.”

“He never told you?” asked Murtagh, a note of disbelief in his voice. Eragon shook his
head. “That’s strange. I can think of no reason for him to have concealed it.”

“Neither can I. But then, he kept many secrets,” said Eragon. It felt unsettling to hold the
sword of the man who had betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix.This blade probably killed
many Riders in its time, he thought with revulsion.And worse, dragons! “Even so, I’m
going to carry it. I don’t have a sword of my own. Until such time as I get one, I’ll use
Zar’roc.”

Murtagh flinched as Eragon said the name. “It’s your choice,” he said. He returned to
skinning, keeping his gaze focused downward.

When the meal was ready, Eragon ate slowly, though he was quite hungry. The hot food
made him feel better. As they scraped out their bowls, he said, “I have to sell my horse.”

“Why not Brom’s?” asked Murtagh. He seemed to have gotten over his bad temper.

“Snowfire? Because Brom promised to take care of him. Since he . . . isn’t around, I’ll do
it for him.”

Murtagh set his bowl on his lap. “If that’s what you want, I’m sure we can find a buyer in
some town or village.”


“We?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh looked at him sideways in a calculating way. “You won’t want to stay here for
much longer. If the Ra’zac are nearby, Brom’s tomb will be like a beacon for them.”
Eragon had not thought of that. “And your ribs are going to take time to heal. I know you
can defend yourself with magic, but you need a companion who can lift things and use a
sword. I’m asking to travel with you, at least for the time being. But I must warn you, the
Empire is searching for me. There’ll be blood over it eventually.”

Eragon laughed weakly and found himself crying because it hurt so much. Once his
breath was back, he said, “I don’t care if the entire army is searching for you. You’re
right. I do need help. I would be glad to have you along, though I have to talk to Saphira
about it. But I have to warnyou, Galbatorix justmight send the entire army after me. You
won’t be any safer with Saphira and me than if you were on your own.”

“I know that,” said Murtagh with a quick grin. “But all the same, it won’t stop me.”

“Good.” Eragon smiled with gratitude.

While they spoke, Saphira crawled into the cave and greeted Eragon. She was glad to see
him, but there was deep sadness in her thoughts and words. She laid her big blue head on
the floor and asked,Are you well again?

Not quite.

I miss the old one.

As do I . . . I never suspected that he was a Rider. Brom! He really was an old man—as
old as the Forsworn. Everything he taught me about magic he must have learned from the
Riders themselves.

Saphira shifted slightly.I knew what he was the moment he touched me at your farm.

And you didn’t tell me? Why?

He asked me not to, she said simply.

Eragon decided not to make an issue of it. Saphira never meant to hurt him. Brom kept
more than that secret,he told her, then explained about Zar’roc and Murtagh’s reaction to
it.I understand now why Brom didn’t explain Zar’roc’s origins when he gave it to me. If
he had, I probably would have run away from him at the first opportunity.

You would do well to rid yourself of that sword,she said with distaste.I know it’s a
peerless weapon, but you would be better off with a normal blade rather than Morzan’s
butchery tool.


Perhaps. Saphira, where does our path go from here? Murtagh offered to come with us. I
don’t know his past, but he seems honest enough. Should we go to the Varden now? Only
I don’t know how to find them. Brom never told us.

He told me,said Saphira.

Eragon grew angry.Why did he trust you, but not me, with all this knowledge?

Her scales rustled over the dry rock as she stood above him, eyes profound.After we left
Teirm and were attacked by the Urgals, he told me many things, some of which I will not
speak of unless necessary. He was concerned about his own death and what would
happen to you after it. One fact he imparted to me was the name of a man, Dormnad, who
lives in Gil’ead. He can help us find the Varden. Brom also wanted you to know that of
all the people in Alagaësia, he believed you were the best suited to inherit the Riders’
legacy.

Tears welled in Eragon’s eyes. This was the highest praise he could have ever received
from Brom.A responsibility I will bear honorably.

Good.

We will go to Gil’ead, then,stated Eragon, strength and purpose returning to him.And
what of Murtagh? Do you think he should come with us?

We owe him our lives,said Saphira.But even if that weren’t so, he has seen both you and
me. We should keep him close so he doesn’t furnish the Empire with our location and
descriptions, willingly or not.

He agreed with her, then told Saphira about his dream.What I saw disturbed me. I feel
that time is running out for her; something dreadful is going to happen soon. She’s in
mortal danger—I’m sure of it—but I don’t know how to find her! She could be anywhere.

What does your heart say?asked Saphira.

My heart died a while back,said Eragon with a hint of black humor.However, I think we
should go north to Gil’ead. With any luck, one of the towns or cities along our path is
where this woman is being held. I’m afraid that my next dream of her will show a grave. I
couldn’t stand that.

Why?

I’m not sure,he said, shrugging.It’s just that when I see her, I feel as if she’s precious and
shouldn’t be lost. . . . It’s very strange. Saphira opened her long mouth and laughed
silently, fangs gleaming.What is it? snapped Eragon. She shook her head and quietly
padded away.


Eragon grumbled to himself, then told Murtagh what they had decided. Murtagh said, “If
you find this Dormnad and then continue on to the Varden, I will leave you.
Encountering the Varden would be as dangerous for me as walking unarmed into
Urû’baen with a fanfare of trumpets to announce my arrival.”

“We won’t have to part anytime soon,” said Eragon. “It’s a long way to Gil’ead.” His
voice cracked slightly, and he squinted at the sun to distract himself. “We should leave
before the day grows any older.”

“Are you strong enough to travel?” asked Murtagh, frowning.

“I have to do something or I’ll go crazy,” said Eragon brusquely. “Sparring, practicing
magic, or sitting around twiddling my thumbs aren’t good options right now, so I choose
to ride.”

They doused the fire, packed, and led the horses out of the cave. Eragon handed Cadoc’s
and Snowfire’s reins to Murtagh, saying, “Go on, I’ll be right down.” Murtagh began the
slow descent from the cave.

Eragon struggled up the sandstone, resting when his side made it impossible to breathe.
When he reached the top, he found Saphira already there. They stood together before
Brom’s grave and paid their last respects.I can’t believe he’s gone . . . forever. As Eragon
turned to depart, Saphira snaked out her long neck to touch the tomb with the tip of her
nose. Her sides vibrated as a low humming filled the air.

The sandstone around her nose shimmered like gilded dew, turning clear with dancing
silver highlights. Eragon watched in wonder as tendrils of white diamond twisted over the
tomb’s surface in a web of priceless filigree. Sparkling shadows were cast on the ground,
reflecting splashes of brilliant colors that shifted dazzlingly as the sandstone continued to
change. With a satisfied snort, Saphira stepped back and examined her handiwork.

The sculpted sandstone mausoleum of moments before had transformed into a sparkling
gemstone vault—under which Brom’s untouched face was visible. Eragon gazed with
yearning at the old man, who seemed to be only sleeping. “What did you do?” he asked
Saphira with awe.

I gave him the only gift I could. Now time will not ravage him. He can rest in peace for
eternity.

Thank you.Eragon put a hand on her side, and they left together.

CAPTURE ATGIL’EAD

Riding was extremely painful for Eragon—his broken ribs prevented them from going
faster than a walk, and it was impossible for him to breathe deeply without a burst of


agony. Nevertheless, he refused to stop. Saphira flew close by, her mind linked with his
for solace and strength.

Murtagh rode confidently beside Cadoc, flowing smoothly with his horse’s movements.
Eragon watched the gray animal for a while. “You have a beautiful horse. What’s his
name?”

“Tornac, after the man who taught me how to fight.” Murtagh patted the horse’s side.
“He was given to me when he was just a foal. You’d be hard pressed to find a more
courageous and intelligent animal in all of Alagaësia, Saphira excepted, of course.”

“He is a magnificent beast,” said Eragon admiringly.

Murtagh laughed. “Yes, but Snowfire is as close to his match as I’ve ever seen.”

They covered only a short distance that day, yet Eragon was glad to be on the move
again. It kept his mind off other, more morbid matters. They were riding through
unsettled land. The road to Dras-Leona was several leagues to their left. They would skirt
the city by a wide margin on the way to Gil’ead, which was almost as far to the north as
Carvahall.

They sold Cadoc in a small village. As the horse was led away by his new owner, Eragon
regretfully pocketed the few coins he had gained from the transaction. It was difficult to
relinquish Cadoc after crossing half of Alagaësia—and outracing Urgals—on him.

The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. Eragon was
pleased to find that he and Murtagh shared many of the same interests; they spent hours
debating the finer points of archery and hunting.

There was one subject, however, they avoided discussing by unspoken consent: their
pasts. Eragon did not explain how he had found Saphira, met Brom, or where he came
from. Murtagh was likewise mute as to why the Empire was chasing him. It was a simple
arrangement, but it worked.

Yet because of their proximity, it was inevitable that they learned about each other.
Eragon was intrigued by Murtagh’s familiarity with the power struggles and politics
within the Empire. He seemed to know what every noble and courtier was doing and how
it affected everyone else. Eragon listened carefully, suspicions whirling through his mind.

The first week went by without any sign of the Ra’zac, which allayed some of Eragon’s
fears. Even so, they still kept watches at night. Eragon had expected to encounter Urgals
on the way to Gil’ead, but they found no trace of them.I thought these remote places
would be teeming with monsters, he mused.Still, I’m not one to complain if they’ve gone
elsewhere.


He dreamed of the woman no more. And though he tried to scry her, he saw only an
empty cell. Whenever they passed a town or city, he checked to see if it had a jail. If it
did, he would disguise himself and visit it, but she was not to be found. His disguises
became increasingly elaborate as he saw notices featuring his name and description—and
offering a substantial reward for his capture—posted in various towns.


Their travels north forced them toward the capital, Urû’baen. It was a heavily populated
area, which made it difficult to escape notice. Soldiers patrolled the roads and guarded
the bridges. It took them several tense, irritable days to skirt the capital.


Once they were safely past Urû’baen, they found themselves on the edge of a vast plain.
It was the same one that Eragon had crossed after leaving Palancar Valley, except now he
was on the opposite side. They kept to the perimeter of the plain and continued north,
following the Ramr River.


Eragon’s sixteenth birthday came and went during this time. At Carvahall a celebration
would have been held for his entrance into manhood, but in the wilderness he did not
even mention it to Murtagh.


At nearly six months of age, Saphira was much larger. Her wings were massive; every
inch of them was needed to lift her muscular body and thick bones. The fangs that jutted
from her jaw were nearly as thick around as Eragon’s fist, their points as sharp as
Zar’roc.


The day finally came when Eragon unwrapped his side for the last time. His ribs had
healed completely, leaving him with only a small scar where the Ra’zac’s boot had cut
his side. As Saphira watched, he stretched slowly, then with increasing vigor when there
was no pain. He flexed his muscles, pleased. In an earlier time he would have smiled, but
after Brom’s death, such expressions did not come easily.


He tugged his tunic on and walked back to the small fire they had made. Murtagh sat next
to it, whittling a piece of wood. Eragon drew Zar’roc. Murtagh tensed, though his face
remained calm. “Now that I am strong enough, would you like to spar?” asked Eragon.


Murtagh tossed the wood to the side. “With sharpened swords? We could kill each
other.”


“Here, give me your sword,” said Eragon. Murtagh hesitated, then handed over his long
hand-and-a-half sword. Eragon blocked the edges with magic, the way Brom had taught
him. While Murtagh examined the blade, Eragon said, “I can undo that once we’re
finished.”


Murtagh checked the balance of his sword. Satisfied, he said, “It will do.” Eragon safed
Zar’roc, settled into a crouch, then swung at Murtagh’s shoulder. Their swords met in



midair. Eragon disengaged with a flourish, thrust, and then riposted as Murtagh parried,
dancing away.

He’s fast!thought Eragon.

They struggled back and forth, trying to batter each other down. After a particularly
intense series of blows, Murtagh started laughing. Not only was it impossible for either of
them to gain an advantage, but they were so evenly matched that they tired at the same
rate. Acknowledging with grins each other’s skill, they fought on until their arms were
leaden and sweat poured off their sides.

Finally Eragon called, “Enough, halt!” Murtagh stopped in mid-blow and sat down with a
gasp. Eragon staggered to the ground, his chest heaving. None of his fights with Brom
had been this fierce.

As he gulped air, Murtagh exclaimed, “You’re amazing! I’ve studied swordplay all my
life, but never have I fought one like you. You could be the king’s weapon master if you
wanted to.”

“You’re just as good,” observed Eragon, still panting. “The man who taught you, Tornac,
could make a fortune with a fencing school. People would come from all parts of
Alagaësia to learn from him.”

“He’s dead,” said Murtagh shortly.

“I’m sorry.”

Thus it became their custom to fight in the evening, which kept them lean and fit, like a
pair of matched blades. With his return to health, Eragon also resumed practicing magic.
Murtagh was curious about it and soon revealed that he knew a surprising amount about
how it worked, though he lacked the precise details and could not use it himself.
Whenever Eragon practiced speaking in the ancient language, Murtagh would listen
quietly, occasionally asking what a word meant.

On the outskirts of Gil’ead they stopped the horses side by side. It had taken them nearly
a month to reach it, during which time spring had finally nudged away the remnants of
winter. Eragon had felt himself changing during the trip, growing stronger and calmer.
He still thought about Brom and spoke about him with Saphira, but for the most part he
tried not to awaken painful memories.

From a distance they could see the city was a rough, barbaric place, filled with log houses
and yapping dogs. There was a rambling stone fortress at its center. The air was hazy
with blue smoke. The place seemed more like a temporary trading post than a permanent
city. Five miles beyond it was the hazy outline of Isenstar Lake.


They decided to camp two miles from the city, for safety. While their dinner simmered,
Murtagh said, “I’m not sure you should be the one to go into Gil’ead.”

“Why? I can disguise myself well enough,” said Eragon. “And Dormnad will want to see
the gedwëy ignasia as proof that I really am a Rider.”

“Perhaps,” said Murtagh, “but the Empire wants you much more than me. If I’m
captured, I could eventually escape. But ifyou are taken, they’ll drag you to the king,
where you’ll be in for a slow death by torture—unless you join him. Plus, Gil’ead is one
of the army’s major staging points. Those aren’t houses out there; they’re barracks.
Going in there would be like handing yourself to the king on a gilded platter.”

Eragon asked Saphira for her opinion. She wrapped her tail around his legs and lay next
to him.You shouldn’t have to ask me; he speaks sense. There are certain words I can give
him that will convince Dormnad of his truthfulness. And Murtagh’s right; if anyone is to
risk capture it should be him, because he would live through it.

He grimaced.I don’t like letting him put himself in danger for us. “All right, you can go,”
he said reluctantly. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m coming after you.”

Murtagh laughed. “That would be fit for a legend: how a lone Rider took on the king’s
army single-handedly.” He chuckled again and stood. “Is there anything I should know
before going?”

“Shouldn’t we rest and wait until tomorrow?” asked Eragon cautiously.

“Why? The longer we stay here, the greater the chance that we’ll be discovered. If this
Dormnad can take you to the Varden, then he needs to be found as quickly as possible.
Neither of us should remain near Gil’ead longer than a few days.”

Again wisdom flies from his mouth,commented Saphira dryly. She told Eragon what
should be said to Dormnad, and he relayed the information to Murtagh.

“Very well,” said Murtagh, adjusting his sword. “Unless there’s trouble, I’ll be back
within a couple of hours. Make sure there’s some food left for me.” With a wave of his
hand, he jumped onto Tornac and rode away. Eragon sat by the fire, tapping Zar’roc’s
pommel apprehensively.

Hours passed, but Murtagh did not return. Eragon paced around the fire, Zar’roc in hand,
while Saphira watched Gil’ead attentively. Only her eyes moved. Neither of them voiced
their worries, though Eragon unobtrusively prepared to leave—in case a detachment of
soldiers left the city and headed toward their camp.

Look,snapped Saphira.


Eragon swiveled toward Gil’ead, alert. He saw a distant horseman exit the city and ride
furiously toward their camp.I don’t like this, he said as he climbed onto Saphira.Be ready
to fly.

I’m prepared for more than that.

As the rider approached, Eragon recognized Murtagh bent low over Tornac. No one
seemed to be pursuing him, but he did not slow his reckless pace. He galloped into the
camp and jumped to the ground, drawing his sword. “What’s wrong?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh scowled. “Did anyone follow me from Gil’ead?”

“We didn’t see anyone.”

“Good. Then let me eat before I explain. I’m starving.” He seized a bowl and began
eating with gusto. After a few sloppy bites, he said through a full mouth, “Dormnad has
agreed to meet us outside Gil’ead at sunrise tomorrow. If he’s satisfied you really are a
Rider and that it’s not a trap, he’ll take you to the Varden.”

“Where are we supposed to meet him?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh pointed west. “On a small hill across the road.”

“So what happened?”

Murtagh spooned more food into his bowl. “It’s a rather simple thing, but all the more
deadly because of it: I was seen in the street by someone who knows me. I did the only
thing I could and ran away. It was too late, though; he recognized me.”

It was unfortunate, but Eragon was unsure how bad it really was. “Since I don’t know
your friend, I have to ask: Will he tell anyone?”

Murtagh gave a strained laugh. “If youhad met him, that wouldn’t need answering. His
mouth is loosely hinged and hangs open all the time, vomiting whatever happens to be in
his mind. The question isn’twhether he will tell people, butwhom he will tell. If word of
this reaches the wrong ears, we’ll be in trouble.”

“I doubt that soldiers will be sent to search for you in the dark,” Eragon pointed out. “We
can at least count on being safe until morning, and by then, if all goes well, we’ll be
leaving with Dormnad.”

Murtagh shook his head. “No, only you will accompany him. As I said before, I won’t go
to the Varden.”


Eragon stared at him unhappily. He wanted Murtagh to stay. They had become friends
during their travels, and he was loath to tear that apart. He started to protest, but Saphira
hushed him and said gently,Wait until tomorrow. Now is not the time.

Very well,he said glumly. They talked until the stars were bright in the sky, then slept as
Saphira took the first watch.

Eragon woke two hours before dawn, his palm tingling. Everything was still and quiet,
but something sought his attention, like an itch in his mind. He buckled on Zar’roc and
stood, careful not to make a sound. Saphira looked at him curiously, her large eyes
bright.What is it? she asked.

I don’t know,said Eragon. He saw nothing amiss.

Saphira sniffed the air curiously. She hissed a little and lifted her head. I smell horses
nearby, but they’re not moving. They reek with an unfamiliar stench.

Eragon crept to Murtagh and shook his shoulder. Murtagh woke with a start, yanked a
dagger from under his blankets, then looked at Eragon quizzically. Eragon motioned for
him to be silent, whispering, “There are horses close by.”

Murtagh wordlessly drew his sword. They quietly stationed themselves on either side of
Saphira, prepared for an attack. As they waited, the morning star rose in the east. A
squirrel chattered.

Then an angry snarl from behind made Eragon spin around, sword held high. A broad
Urgal stood at the edge of the camp, carrying a mattock with a nasty spike.Where did he
come from? We haven’t seen their tracks anywhere! thought Eragon. The Urgal roared
and waved his weapon, but did not charge.

“Brisingr!” barked Eragon, stabbing out with magic. The Urgal’s face contorted with
terror as he exploded in a flash of blue light. Blood splattered Eragon, and a brown mass
flew through the air. Behind him, Saphira bugled with alarm and reared. Eragon twisted
around. While he had been occupied with the first Urgal, a group of them had run up
from the side.Of all the stupid tricks to fall for!

Steel clashed loudly as Murtagh attacked the Urgals. Eragon tried to join him but was
blocked by four of the monsters. The first one swung a sword at his shoulder. He ducked
the blow and killed the Urgal with magic. He caught a second one in the throat with
Zar’roc, wheeled wildly, and slashed a third through the heart. As he did, the fourth Urgal
rushed at him, swinging a heavy club.

Eragon saw him coming and tried to lift his sword to block the club, but was a second too
slow. As the club came down on his head, he screamed, “Fly, Saphira!” A burst of light
filled his eyes and he lost consciousness.


DUSÚNDAVARFREOHR

The first things Eragon noticed were that he was warm and dry, his cheek was pressed
against rough fabric, and his hands were unbound. He stirred, but it was minutes before
he was able to push himself upright and examine his surroundings.

He was sitting in a cell on a narrow, bumpy cot. A barred window was set high in the
wall. The iron-bound door with a small window in its top half, barred like the one in the
wall, was shut securely.

Dried blood cracked on Eragon’s face when he moved. It took him a moment to
remember that it was not his. His head hurt horribly—which was to be expected,
considering the blow he had taken—and his mind was strangely fuzzy. He tried to use
magic, but could not concentrate well enough to remember any of the ancient words.They
must have drugged me, he finally decided.

With a groan he got up, missing the familiar weight of Zar’roc on his hip, and lurched to
the window in the wall. He managed to see out of it by standing on his toes. It took a
minute for his eyes to adjust to the bright light outside. The window was level with the
ground. A street full of busy people ran past the side of his cell, beyond which were rows
of identical log houses.

Feeling weak, Eragon slid to the floor and stared at it blankly. What he had seen outside
disturbed him, but he was unsure why. Cursing his sluggish thinking, he leaned back his
head and tried to clear his mind. A man entered the room and set a tray of food and a
pitcher of water on the cot.Wasn’t that nice of him? thought Eragon, smiling pleasantly.
He took a couple of bites of the thin cabbage soup and stale bread, but was barely able to
stomach it.I wish he had brought me something better, he complained, dropping the
spoon.

He suddenly realized what was wrong.I was captured by Urgals, not men! How did I end
up here? His befuddled brain grappled with the paradox unsuccessfully. With a mental
shrug he filed the discovery away for a time when he would know what to do with it.

He sat on the cot and gazed into the distance. Hours later more food was brought in.And I
was just getting hungry, he thought thickly. This time he was able to eat without feeling
sick. When he finished, he decided it was time for a nap. After all, he was on a bed; what
else was he going to do?

His mind drifted off; sleep began to envelop him. Then a gate clanged open somewhere,
and the din of steel-shod boots marching on a stone floor filled the air. The noise grew
louder and louder until it sounded like someone banging a pot inside Eragon’s head. He
grumbled to himself.Can’t they let me rest in peace? Fuzzy curiosity slowly overcame his
exhaustion, so he dragged himself to the door, blinking like an owl.


Through the window he saw a wide hallway nearly ten yards across. The opposing wall
was lined with cells similar to his own. A column of soldiers marched through the hall,
their swords drawn and ready. Every man was dressed in matching armor; their faces
bore the same hard expression, and their feet came down on the floor with mechanical
precision, never missing a beat. The sound was hypnotic. It was an impressive display of
force.

Eragon watched the soldiers until he grew bored. Just then he noticed a break in the
middle of the column. Carried between two burly men was an unconscious woman.

Her long midnight-black hair obscured her face, despite a leather strip bound around her
head to hold the tresses back. She was dressed in dark leather pants and shirt. Wrapped
around her slim waist was a shiny belt, from which hung an empty sheath on her right
hip. Knee-high boots covered her calves and small feet.

Her head lolled to the side. Eragon gasped, feeling like he had been struck in the
stomach. She was the woman from his dreams. Her sculpted face was as perfect as a
painting. Her round chin, high cheekbones, and long eyelashes gave her an exotic look.
The only mar in her beauty was a scrape along her jaw; nevertheless, she was the fairest
woman he had ever seen.

Eragon’s blood burned as he looked at her. Something awoke in him—something he had
never felt before. It was like an obsession, except stronger, almost a fevered madness.
Then the woman’s hair shifted, revealing pointed ears. A chill crept over him. She was an
elf.

The soldiers continued marching, taking her from his sight. Next strode a tall, proud man,
a sable cape billowing behind him. His face was deathly white; his hair was red. Red like
blood.

As he walked by Eragon’s cell, the man turned his head and looked squarely at him with
maroon eyes. His upper lip pulled back in a feral smile, revealing teeth filed to points.
Eragon shrank back. He knew what the man was.A Shade.So help me . . . a Shade. The
procession continued, and the Shade vanished from view.

Eragon sank to the floor, hugging himself. Even in his bewildered state, he knew that the
presence of a Shade meant that evil was loose in the land. Whenever they appeared,
rivers of blood were sure to follow.What is a Shade doing here? The soldiers should have
killed him on sight! Then his thoughts returned to the elf-woman, and he was grasped by
strange emotions again.

I have to escape.But with his mind clouded, his determination quickly faded. He returned
to the cot. By the time the hallway fell silent, he was fast asleep.


As soon as Eragon opened his eyes, he knew something was different. It was easier for
him to think; he realized that he was in Gil’ead.They made a mistake; the drug’s wearing
off! Hopeful, he tried to contact Saphira and use magic, but both activities were still
beyond his reach. A pit of worry twisted inside him as he wondered if she and Murtagh
had managed to escape. He stretched his arms and looked out the window. The city was
just awakening; the street was empty except for two beggars.

He reached for the water pitcher, ruminating about the elf and Shade. As he started to
drink, he noticed that the water had a faint odor, as if it contained a few drops of rancid
perfume. Grimacing, he set the pitcher down.The drug must be in there and maybe in the
food as well! He remembered that when the Ra’zac had drugged him, it had taken hours
to wear off.If I can keep from drinking and eating for long enough, I should be able to
use magic. Then I can rescue the elf. . . . The thought made him smile. He sat in a corner,
dreaming about how it could be done.

The portly jailer entered the cell an hour later with a tray of food. Eragon waited until he
departed, then carried the tray to the window. The meal was composed only of bread,
cheese, and an onion, but the smell made his stomach grumble hungrily. Resigning
himself to a miserable day, he shoved the food out the window and onto the street, hoping
that no one would notice.

Eragon devoted himself to overcoming the drug’s effects. He had difficulty concentrating
for any length of time, but as the day progressed, his mental acuity increased. He began
to remember several of the ancient words, though nothing happened when he uttered
them. He wanted to scream with frustration.

When lunch was delivered, he pushed it out the window after his breakfast. His hunger
was distracting, but it was the lack of water that taxed him most. The back of his throat
was parched. Thoughts of drinking cool water tortured him as each breath dried his
mouth and throat a bit more. Even so, he forced himself to ignore the pitcher.

He was diverted from his discomfort by a commotion in the hall. A man argued in a loud
voice, “You can’t go in there! The orders were clear: no one is to see him!”

“Really? Will you be the one to die stopping me, Captain?” cut in a smooth voice.

There was a subdued, “No . . . but the king—”

“Iwill handle the king,” interrupted the second person. “Now, unlock the door.”

After a pause, keys jangled outside Eragon’s cell. He tried to adopt a languorous
expression.I have to act like I don’t understand what’s going on. I can’t show surprise,
no matter what this person says.

The door opened. His breath caught as he looked into the Shade’s face. It was like gazing
at a death mask or a polished skull with skin pulled over it to give the appearance of life.


“Greetings,” said the Shade with a cold smile, showing his filed teeth. “I’ve waited a long
time to meet you.”

“Who—who’re you?” asked Eragon, slurring his words.

“No one of consequence,” answered the Shade, his maroon eyes alight with controlled
menace. He sat with a flourish of his cloak. “My name does not matter to one in your
position. It wouldn’t mean a thing to you anyway. It’s you that I’m interested in. Who are
you?”

The question was posed innocently enough, but Eragon knew there had to be a catch or
trap in it, though it eluded him. He pretended to struggle over the question for a while,
then slowly said, frowning, “I’m not sure. . . . M’name’s Eragon, but that’s not all I am, is
it?”

The Shade’s narrow lips stretched tautly over his mouth as he laughed sharply. “No, it
isn’t. You have an interesting mind, my young Rider.” He leaned forward. The skin on
his forehead was thin and translucent. “It seems I must be more direct. What is your
name?”

“Era—”

“No! Not that one.” The Shade cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you have
another one, one that you use only rarely?”

He wants my true name so he can control me!realized Eragon.But I can’t tell him. I don’t
even know it myself. He thought quickly, trying to invent a deception that would conceal
his ignorance.What if I made up a name? He hesitated—it could easily give him away—
then raced to create a name that would withstand scrutiny. As he was about to utter it, he
decided to take a chance and try to scare the Shade. He deftly switched a few letters, then
nodded foolishly and said, “Brom told it to me once. It was . . .” The pause stretched for a
few seconds, then his face brightened as he appeared to remember. “It was Du Súndavar
Freohr.” Which meant almost literally “death of the shadows.”

A grim chill settled over the cell as the Shade sat motionless, eyes veiled. He seemed to
be deep in thought, pondering what he had learned. Eragon wondered if he had dared too
much. He waited until the Shade stirred before asking ingenuously, “Why are you here?”

The Shade looked at him with contempt in his red eyes and smiled. “To gloat, of course.
What use is a victory if one cannot enjoy it?” There was confidence in his voice, but he
seemed uneasy, as if his plans had been disrupted. He stood suddenly. “I must attend to
certain matters, but while I am gone you would do well to think on who you would rather
serve: a Rider who betrayed your own order or a fellow man like me, though one skilled
in arcane arts. When the time comes to choose, there will be no middle ground.” He
turned to leave, then glanced at Eragon’s water pitcher and stopped, his face granite hard.
“Captain!” he snapped.


A broad-shouldered man rushed into the cell, sword in hand. “What is it, my lord?” he
asked, alarmed.

“Put that toy away,” instructed the Shade. He turned to Eragon and said in a deadly quiet
voice, “The boy hasn’t been drinking his water. Why is that?”

“I talked with the jailer earlier. Every bowl and plate was scraped clean.”

“Very well,” said the Shade, mollified. “But make sure that he starts drinking again.” He
leaned toward the captain and murmured into his ear. Eragon caught the last few words,
“. . . extra dose, just in case.” The captain nodded. The Shade returned his attention to
Eragon. “We will talk again tomorrow when I am not so pressed for time. You should
know, I have an endless fascination for names. I will greatly enjoy discussing yours
inmuch greater detail.”

The way he said it gave Eragon a sinking feeling.

Once they left, he lay on the cot and closed his eyes. Brom’s lessons proved their worth
now; he relied on them to keep himself from panicking and to reassure
himself.Everything has been provided for me; I only have to take advantage of it. His
thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching soldiers.

Apprehensive, he went to the door and saw two soldiers dragging the elf down the
hallway. When he could see her no more, Eragon slumped to the floor and tried to touch
the magic again. Oaths flew from his lips when it eluded his grasp.

He looked out at the city and ground his teeth. It was only midafternoon. Taking a
calming breath, he tried to wait patiently.

FIGHTINGSHADOWS

It was dark in Eragon’s cell when he sat up with a start, electrified. The wrinkle had
shifted! He had felt the magic at the edge of his consciousness for hours, but every time
he tried to use it, nothing happened. Eyes bright with nervous energy, he clenched his
hands and said, “Nagz reisa!” With a flap, the cot’s blanket flew into the air and
crumpled into a ball the size of his fist. It landed on the floor with a soft thump.

Exhilarated, Eragon stood. He was weak from his enforced fast, but his excitement
overcame his hunger.Now for the real test. He reached out with his mind and felt the lock
on the door. Instead of trying to break or cut it, he simply pushed its internal mechanism
into the unlocked position. With a click, the door creaked inward.

When he had first used magic to kill the Urgals in Yazuac, it had consumed nearly all of
his strength, but he had grown much stronger since then. What once would have
exhausted him now only tired him slightly.


He cautiously stepped into the hall.I have to find Zar’roc and the elf. She must be in one
of these cells, but there isn’t time to look in them all. As for Zar’roc, the Shade might
have it with him. He realized that his thinking was still muddled.Why am I out here? I
could escape right now if I went back into the cell and opened the window with magic.
But then I wouldn’t be able to rescue the elf. . . . Saphira, where are you? I need your
help. He silently berated himself for not contacting her sooner. That should have been the
first thing he did after getting his power back.

Her reply came with surprising alacrity.Eragon! I’m over Gil’ead. Don’t do anything.
Murtagh is on the way.

What are—Footsteps interrupted him. He spun around, crouching as a squad of six
soldiers marched into the hall. They halted abruptly, eyes flicking between Eragon and
the open cell door. Blood drained from their faces.Good, they know who I am.Maybe I
can scare them off so we won’t have to fight.

“Charge!” yelled one of the soldiers, running forward. The rest of the men drew their
blades and pounded down the hall.

It was madness to fight six men when he was unarmed and weak, but the thought of the
elf kept him in place. He could not force himself to abandon her. Uncertain if the effort
would leave him standing, he pulled on his power and raised his hand, the gedwëy
ignasia glowing. Fear showed in the soldiers’ eyes, but they were hardened warriors and
did not slow. As Eragon opened his mouth to pronounce the fatal words, there was a low
buzz, a flicker of motion. One of the men crashed to the floor with an arrow in his back.
Two more were struck before anyone understood what was happening.

At the end of the hall, where the soldiers had entered, stood a ragged, bearded man with a
bow. A crutch lay on the floor by his feet, apparently unneeded, for he stood tall and
straight.

The three remaining soldiers turned to face this new threat. Eragon took advantage of the
confusion. “Thrysta!” he shouted. One of the men clutched his chest and fell. Eragon
staggered as the magic took its toll. Another soldier fell, pierced through the neck with an
arrow. “Don’t kill him!” called Eragon, seeing his rescuer take aim at the last soldier. The
bearded man lowered his bow.

Eragon concentrated on the soldier before him. The man was breathing hard; the whites
of his eyes showed. He seemed to understand that his life was being spared.

“You’ve seen what I can do,” said Eragon harshly. “If you don’t answer my questions,
the rest of your life will be spent in utter misery and torment. Now where’s my sword—
its sheath and blade are red—and what cell is the elf in?”

The man clamped his mouth shut.


Eragon’s palm glowed ominously as he reached for the magic. “That was the wrong
answer,” he snapped. “Do you know how much pain a grain of sand can cause you when
it’s embedded red hot in your stomach? Especially when it doesn’t cool off for the next
twenty years and slowly burns its way down to your toes! By the time it gets out of you,
you’ll be an old man.” He paused for effect. “Unless you tell me what I want.”

The soldier’s eyes bulged, but he remained silent. Eragon scraped some dirt off the stone
floor and observed dispassionately, “This is a bit more than a piece of sand, but be
comforted; it’ll burn through you faster. Still, it’ll leave a bigger hole.” At his word, the
dirt shone cherry red, though it did not burn his hand.

“All right, just don’t put that in me!” yelped the soldier. “The elf’s in the last cell to the
left! I don’t know about your sword, but it’s probably in the guardroom upstairs. All the
weapons are there.”

Eragon nodded, then murmured, “Slytha.” The soldier’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he
collapsed limply.

“Did you kill him?”

Eragon looked at the stranger, who was now only a few paces away. He narrowed his
eyes, trying to see past the beard. “Murtagh! Is that you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Murtagh, briefly lifting the beard from his shaven face. “I don’t want my face
seen. Did you kill him?”

“No, he’s only asleep. How did you get in?”

“There’s no time to explain. We have to get up to the next floor before anyone finds us.
There’ll be an escape route for us in a few minutes. We don’t want to miss it.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” asked Eragon, gesturing at the unconscious soldier.
“There’s an elf in the prison. I saw her! We have to rescue her. I need your help.”

“An elf . . . !” Murtagh hurried down the hall, growling, “This is a mistake. We should
flee while we have the chance.” He stopped before the cell the soldier had indicated and
produced a ring of keys from under his ragged cloak. “I took it from one of the guards,”
he explained.

Eragon motioned for the keys. Murtagh shrugged and handed them to him. Eragon found
the right one and swung the door open. A single beam of moonlight slanted through the
window, illuminating the elf’s face with cool silver.

She faced him, tense and coiled, ready for whatever would happen next. She held her
head high, with a queen’s demeanor. Her eyes, dark green, almost black, and slightly
angled like a cat’s, lifted to Eragon’s. Chills shot through him.


Their gaze held for a moment, then the elf trembled and collapsed soundlessly. Eragon
barely caught her before she struck the floor. She was surprisingly light. The aroma of
freshly crushed pine needles surrounded her.

Murtagh entered the cell. “She’s beautiful!”

“But hurt.”

“We can tend to her later. Are you strong enough to carry her?” Eragon shook his head.
“Then I’ll do it,” said Murtagh as he slung the elf across his shoulders. “Now, upstairs!”
He handed Eragon a dagger, then hurried back into the hall littered with soldiers’ bodies.

With heavy footsteps Murtagh led Eragon to a stone-hewn staircase at the end of the hall.
As they climbed it, Eragon asked, “How are we going to get out without being noticed?”

“We’re not,” grunted Murtagh.

That did not allay Eragon’s fears. He listened anxiously for soldiers or anyone else who
might be nearby, dreading what might happen if they met the Shade. At the head of the
stairs was a banquet room filled with broad wooden tables. Shields lined the walls, and
the wood ceiling was trussed with curved beams. Murtagh laid the elf on a table and
looked at the ceiling worriedly. “Can you talk to Saphira for me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her to wait another five minutes.”

There were shouts in the distance. Soldiers marched past the entrance to the banquet
room. Eragon’s mouth tightened with pent-up tension. “Whatever you’re planning to do,
I don’t think we have much time.”

“Just tell her, and stay out of sight,” snapped Murtagh, running off.

As Eragon relayed the message, he was alarmed to hear men coming up the stairs.
Fighting hunger and exhaustion, he dragged the elf off the table and hid her underneath it.
He crouched next to her, holding his breath, tightly clenching the dagger.

Ten soldiers entered the room. They swept through it hurriedly, looking under only a
couple of tables, and continued on their way. Eragon leaned against a table leg, sighing.
The respite made him suddenly aware of his burning stomach and parched throat. A
tankard and a plate of half-eaten food on the other side of the room caught his attention.

Eragon dashed from his hiding place, grabbed the food, then scurried back to the table.
There was amber beer in the tankard, which he drank in two great gulps. Relief seeped
through him as the cool liquid ran down his throat, soothing the irritated tissue. He
suppressed a belch before ravenously tearing into a hunk of bread.


Murtagh returned carrying Zar’roc, a strange bow, and an elegant sword without a sheath.
Murtagh gave Zar’roc to Eragon. “I found the other sword and bow in the guardroom.
I’ve never seen weapons like them before, so I assumed they were the elf’s.”

“Let’s find out,” said Eragon through a mouthful of bread. The sword—slim and light
with a curved crossguard, the ends of which narrowed into sharp points—fit the elf’s
sheath perfectly. There was no way to tell if the bow was hers, but it was shaped so
gracefully he doubted it could be anyone else’s. “What now?” he asked, cramming
another bite of food into his mouth. “We can’t stay here forever. Sooner or later the
soldiers will find us.”

“Now,” said Murtagh, taking out his own bow and fitting an arrow to the string, “we
wait. Like I said, our escape has been arranged.”

“You don’t understand; there’s a Shade here! If he finds us, we’re doomed.”

“A Shade!” exclaimed Murtagh. “In that case, tell Saphira to come immediately. We
were going to wait until the watch changed, but delaying even that long is too dangerous
now.” Eragon relayed the message succinctly, refraining from distracting Saphira with
questions. “You messed up my plans by escaping yourself,” groused Murtagh, watching
the room’s entrances for soldiers.

Eragon smiled. “In that case, perhaps I should have waited.Your timing was perfect,
though. I wouldn’t have been able to even crawl if I had been forced to fight all those
soldiers with magic.”

“Glad to be of some use,” remarked Murtagh. He stiffened as they heard men running
nearby. “Let’s just hope the Shade doesn’t find us.”

A cold chuckle filled the banquet room. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”

Murtagh and Eragon spun around. The Shade stood alone at the end of the room. In his
hand was a pale sword with a thin scratch on the blade. He unclasped the brooch that held
his cape in place and let the garment fall to the floor. His body was like a runner’s, thin
and compact, but Eragon remembered Brom’s warning and knew that the Shade’s
appearance was deceiving; he was many times stronger than a normal human.

“So, my youngRider, do you wish to test yourself against me?” sneered the Shade. “I
shouldn’t have trusted the captain when he said you ate all your food. I will not make that
mistake again.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Murtagh quietly, putting down his bow and drawing his
sword.

“No,” said Eragon under his breath. “He wants me alive, not you. I can stall him for a
short while, but then you’d better have a way out for us.”


“Fine, go,” said Murtagh. “You won’t have to hold him off for long.”

“I hope not,” said Eragon grimly. He drew Zar’roc and slowly advanced. The red blade
glinted with light from torches on the wall.

The Shade’s maroon eyes burned like coals. He laughed softly. “Do you really think to
defeat me, Du Súndavar Freohr? What a pitiful name. I would have expected something
more subtle from you, but I suppose that’s all you’re capable of.”

Eragon refused to let himself be goaded. He stared at the Shade’s face, waiting for a
flicker of his eyes or twitch of his lip, anything that would betray his next move.I can’t
use magic for fear of provoking him to do the same. He has to think that he can win
without resorting to it—which he probably can.

Before either of them moved, the ceiling boomed and shook. Dust billowed from it and
turned the air gray while pieces of wood fell around them, shattering on the floor. From
the roof came screams and the sound of clashing metal. Afraid of being brained by the
falling timber, Eragon flicked his eyes upward. The Shade took advantage of his
distraction and attacked.

Eragon barely managed to get Zar’roc up in time to block a slash at his ribs. Their blades
met with a clang that jarred his teeth and numbed his arm.Hellfire! He’s strong! He
grasped Zar’roc with both hands and swung with all of his might at the Shade’s head. The
Shade blocked him with ease, whipping his sword through the air faster than Eragon had
thought possible.

Terrible screeches sounded above them, like iron spikes being drawn across rock. Three
long cracks split the ceiling. Shingles from the slate roof fell through the fissures. Eragon
ignored them, even when one smashed into the floor next to him. Though he had trained
with a master of the blade, Brom, and with Murtagh, who was also a deadly swordsman,
he had never been this outclassed. The Shade wasplaying with him.

Eragon retreated toward Murtagh, arms trembling as he parried the Shade’s blows. Each
one seemed more powerful than the last. Eragon was no longer strong enough to call
upon magic for help even if he had wanted to. Then, with a contemptuous flick of his
wrist, the Shade knocked Zar’roc out of Eragon’s hand. The force of the blow sent him to
his knees, where he stayed, panting. The screeching was louder than ever. Whatever was
happening, it was getting closer.

The Shade stared down at him haughtily. “A powerful piece you may be in the game that
is being played, but I’m disappointed that this is your best. If the other Riders were this
weak, they must have controlled the Empire only through sheer numbers.”

Eragon looked up and shook his head. He had figured out Murtagh’s plan.Saphira, now
would be a good time. “No, you forget something.”


“And what might that be?” asked the Shade mockingly.

There was a thunderous reverberation as a chunk of the ceiling was torn away to reveal
the night sky. “The dragons!” roared Eragon over the noise, and threw himself out of the
Shade’s reach. The Shade snarled in rage, swinging his sword viciously. He missed and
lunged. Surprise spread across his face as one of Murtagh’s arrows sprouted from his
shoulder.

The Shade laughed and snapped the arrow off with two fingers. “You’ll have to do better
than that if you want to stop me.” The next arrow caught him between the eyes. The
Shade howled with agony and writhed, covering his face. His skin turned gray. Mist
formed in the air around him, obscuring his figure. There was a shattering cry; then the
cloud vanished.

Where the Shade had been, nothing was left but his cape and a pile of clothes. “You
killed him!” exclaimed Eragon. He knew of only two heroes of legend who had survived
slaying a Shade.

“I’m not so sure,” said Murtagh.

A man shouted, “That’s it. He failed. Go in and get them!” Soldiers with nets and spears
poured into the banquet room from both ends. Eragon and Murtagh backed up against the
wall, dragging the elf with them. The men formed a menacing half-circle around them.
Then Saphira stuck her head through the hole in the ceiling and roared. She gripped the
edge of the opening with her powerful talons and ripped off another large section of the
ceiling.

Three soldiers turned and ran, but the rest held their positions. With a resounding report,
the center beam of the ceiling cracked and rained down heavy shingles. Confusion
scattered the ranks as they tried to dodge the deadly barrage. Eragon and Murtagh pressed
against the wall to avoid the falling debris. Saphira roared again, and the soldiers fled,
some getting crushed on the way.

With a final titanic effort, Saphira tore off the rest of the ceiling before jumping into the
banquet hall with her wings folded. Her weight splintered a table with a sharp crunch.
Crying out with relief, Eragon threw his arms around her. She hummed contentedly.I’ve
missed you, little one.

Same here. There’s someone else with us. Can you carry three?

Of course,she said, kicking shingles and tables out of the way so she could take off.
Murtagh and Eragon pulled the elf out of hiding. Saphira hissed in surprise as she saw
her.An elf!


Yes, and the woman I saw in my dreams,said Eragon, picking up Zar’roc. He helped
Murtagh secure the elf into the saddle, then they both climbed onto Saphira.I heard
fighting on the roof. Are there men up there?

There were, but no more. Are you ready?

Yes.

Saphira leapt out of the banquet hall and onto the fortress’s roof, where the bodies of
watchmen lay scattered. “Look!” said Murtagh, pointing. A row of archers filed out of a
tower on the other side of the roofless hall.

“Saphira, you have to take off. Now!” warned Eragon.

She unfurled her wings, ran toward the edge of the building, and propelled them over it
with her powerful legs. The extra weight on her back made her drop alarmingly. As she
struggled to gain altitude, Eragon heard the musical twang of bowstrings being released.

Arrows whizzed toward them in the dark. Saphira roared with pain as she was struck and
quickly rolled to the left to avoid the next volley. More arrows perforated the sky, but the
night protected them from the shafts’ deadly bite. Distressed, Eragon bent over Saphira’s
neck.Where are you hurt?

My wings are pierced . . . one of the arrows didn’t go all the way through. It’s still
there.Her breathing was labored and heavy.

How far can you take us?

Far enough.Eragon clutched the elf tightly as they skimmed over Gil’ead, then left the
city behind and veered eastward, soaring upward through the night.

AWARRIOR
AND AHEALER

Saphira drifted down to a clearing, landed on the crest of a hill, and rested her
outstretched wings on the ground. Eragon could feel her shaking beneath him. They were
only a half-league from Gil’ead.

Picketed in the clearing were Snowfire and Tornac, who snorted nervously at Saphira’s
arrival. Eragon slid to the ground and immediately turned to Saphira’s injuries, while
Murtagh readied the horses.

Unable to see well in the darkness, Eragon ran his hands blindly over Saphira’s wings.
He found three places where arrows had punctured the thin membrane, leaving bloody
holes as thick around as his thumb. A small piece had also been torn out of the back edge


of her left wing. She shivered when his fingers brushed the injuries. He tiredly healed the
wounds with words from the ancient language. Then he went to the arrow that was
embedded in one of the large muscles of her flying arm. The arrowhead poked through its
underside. Warm blood dripped off it.

Eragon called Murtagh over and instructed, “Hold her wing down. I have to remove this
arrow.” He indicated where Murtagh should grip.This will be painful, he warned
Saphira,but it’ll be over quickly. Try not to struggle—you’ll hurt us.

She extended her neck and grabbed a tall sapling between her curved teeth. With a yank
of her head, she pulled the tree out of the ground and clamped it firmly in her jaws.I’m
ready.

Okay,said Eragon. “Hold on,” he whispered to Murtagh, then broke off the head of the
arrow. Trying not cause any more damage, he swiftly pulled the shaft out of Saphira. As
it left her muscle, she threw back her head and whimpered past the tree in her mouth. Her
wing jerked involuntarily, clipping Murtagh under the chin and knocking him to the
ground.

With a growl, Saphira shook the tree, spraying them with dirt before tossing it away.
After Eragon sealed the wound, he helped Murtagh up. “She caught me by surprise,”
admitted Murtagh, touching his scraped jaw.

I’m sorry.

“She didn’t mean to hit you,” assured Eragon. He checked on the unconscious elf.You’re
going to have to carry her a bit longer, he told Saphira.We can’t take her on the horses
and ride fast enough. Flying should be easier for you now that the arrow is out.

Saphira dipped her head.I will do it.

Thank you,said Eragon. He hugged her fiercely.What you did was incredible; I’ll never
forget it.

Her eyes softened.I will go now. He backed away as she flew up in a flurry of air, the
elf’s hair streaming back. Seconds later they were gone. Eragon hurried to Snowfire,
pulled himself into the saddle, and galloped away with Murtagh.

While they rode, Eragon tried to remember what he knew about elves. They had long
lives—that fact was oft repeated—although he knew not how long. They spoke the
ancient language, and many could use magic. After the Riders’ fall, elves had retreated
into seclusion. None of them had been seen in the Empire since.So why is one here now?
And how did the Empire manage to capture her? If she can use magic, she’s probably
drugged as I was.


They traveled through the night, not stopping even when their flagging strength began to
slow them. They continued onward despite burning eyes and clumsy movements. Behind
them, lines of torch-bearing horsemen searched around Gil’ead for their trail.

After many bleary hours, dawn lightened the sky. By unspoken consent Eragon and
Murtagh stopped the horses. “We have to make camp,” said Eragon wearily. “I must
sleep—whether they catch us or not.”

“Agreed,” said Murtagh, rubbing his eyes. “Have Saphira land. We’ll meet her.”

They followed Saphira’s directions and found her drinking from a stream at the base of a
small cliff, the elf still slouched on her back. Saphira greeted them with a soft bugle as
Eragon dismounted.

Murtagh helped him remove the elf from Saphira’s saddle and lower her to the ground.
Then they sagged against the rock face, exhausted. Saphira examined the elf curiously.I
wonder why she hasn’t woken. It’s been hours since we left Gil’ead.

Who knows what they did to her?said Eragon grimly.

Murtagh followed their gaze. “As far as I know, she’s the first elf the king has captured.
Ever since they went into hiding, he’s been looking for them without success—until now.
So he’s either found their sanctuary, or she was captured by chance. I think it was chance.
If he had found the elf haven, he would have declared war and sent his army after the
elves. Since that hasn’t happened, the question is, Were Galbatorix’s men able to extract
the elves’ location before we rescued her?”

“We won’t know until she regains consciousness. Tell me what happened after I was
captured. How did I end up in Gil’ead?”

“The Urgals are working for the Empire,” said Murtagh shortly, pushing back his hair.
“And, it seems, the Shade as well. Saphira and I saw the Urgals give you to him—though
I didn’t know who it was at the time—and a group of soldiers. They were the ones who
took you to Gil’ead.”

It’s true,said Saphira, curling up next to them.

Eragon’s mind flashed back to the Urgals he had spoken with at Teirm and the “master”
they had mentioned.They meant the king! I insulted the most powerful man in Alagaësia!
he realized with dread. Then he remembered the horror of the slaughtered villagers in
Yazuac. A sick, angry feeling welled in his stomach.The Urgals were under Galbatorix’s
orders! Why would he commit such an atrocity on his own subjects?

Because he is evil,stated Saphira flatly.


Glowering, Eragon exclaimed, “This will mean war! Once the people of the Empire learn
of it, they will rebel and support the Varden.”

Murtagh rested his chin in his hand. “Even if they heard of this outrage, few would make
it to the Varden. With the Urgals under his command, the king has enough warriors to
close the Empire’s borders and remain in control, no matter how disruptive people are.
With such a rule of terror, he will be able to shape the Empire however he wants. And
though he is hated, people could be galvanized into joining him if they had a common
enemy.”

“Who would that be?” asked Eragon, confused.

“The elves and the Varden. With the right rumors they can be portrayed as the most
despicable monsters in Alagaësia—fiends who are waiting to seize your land and wealth.
The Empire could even say that the Urgals have been misunderstood all this time and that
they are really friends and allies against such terrible enemies. I only wonder what the
king promised them in return for their services.”

“It wouldn’t work,” said Eragon, shaking his head. “No one could be deceived that easily
about Galbatorix and the Urgals. Besides, why would he want to do that? He’s already in
power.”

“But his authority is challenged by the Varden, with whom people sympathize. There’s
also Surda, which has defied him since it seceded from the Empire. Galbatorix is strong
within the Empire, but his arm is weak outside of it. As for people seeing through his
deceptions, they’ll believe whatever he wants them to. It’s happened before.” Murtagh
fell silent and gazed moodily into the distance.

His words troubled Eragon. Saphira touched him with her mind:Where is Galbatorix
sending the Urgals?

What?

In both Carvahall and Teirm, you heard that Urgals were leaving the area and migrating
southeast, as if to brave the Hadarac Desert. If the king truly does control them, why is
he sending them in that direction? Maybe an Urgal army is being gathered for his private
use or an Urgal city is being formed.

Eragon shuddered at the thought.I’m too tired to figure it out. Whatever Galbatorix’s
plans, they’ll only cause us trouble. I just wish that we knew where the Varden are.
That’s where we should be going, but we’re lost without Dormnad. It doesn’t matter what
we do; the Empire will find us.

Don’t give up,she said encouragingly, then added dryly,though you’re probably right.


Thanks.He looked at Murtagh. “You risked your life to rescue me; I owe you for that. I
couldn’t have escaped on my own.” It was more than that, though. There was a bond
between them now, welded in the brotherhood of battle and tempered by the loyalty
Murtagh had shown.

“I’m just glad I could help. It . . .” Murtagh faltered and rubbed his face. “My main worry
now is how we’re going to travel with so many men searching for us. Gil’ead’s soldiers
will be hunting us tomorrow; once they find the horses’ tracks, they’ll know you didn’t
fly away with Saphira.”

Eragon glumly agreed. “How did you manage to get into the castle?”

Murtagh laughed softly. “By paying a steep bribe and crawling through a filthy scullery
chute. But the plan wouldn’t have worked without Saphira. She,” he stopped and directed
his words at her, “that is, you, are the only reason we escaped alive.”

Eragon solemnly put a hand on her scaly neck. As she hummed contentedly, he gazed at
the elf’s face, captivated. Reluctantly, he dragged himself upright. “We should make a
bed for her.”

Murtagh got to his feet and stretched out a blanket for the elf. When they lifted her onto
it, the cuff of her sleeve tore on a branch. Eragon began to pinch the fabric together, then
gasped.

The elf’s arm was mottled with a layer of bruises and cuts; some were half healed, while
others were fresh and oozing. Eragon shook his head with anger and pulled the sleeve up
higher. The injuries continued to her shoulder. With trembling fingers, he unlaced the
back of her shirt, dreading what might be under it.

As the leather slipped off, Murtagh cursed. The elf’s back was strong and muscled, but it
was covered with scabs that made her skin look like dry, cracked mud. She had been
whipped mercilessly and branded with hot irons in the shape of claws. Where her skin
was still intact, it was purple and black from numerous beatings. On her left shoulder was
a tattoo inscribed with indigo ink. It was the same symbol that had been on the sapphire
of Brom’s ring. Eragon silently swore an oath that he would kill whoever was responsible
for torturing the elf.

“Can you heal this?” asked Murtagh.

“I—I don’t know,” said Eragon. He swallowed back sudden queasiness. “There’s so
much.”

Eragon!said Saphira sharply.This is an elf. She cannot be allowed to die. Tired or not,
hungry or not, you must save her. I will meld my strength with yours, but you are the one
who must wield the magic.


Yes . . . you are right,he murmured, unable to tear his eyes from the elf. Determined, he
pulled off his gloves and said to Murtagh, “This is going to take some time. Can you get
me food? Also, boil rags for bandages; I can’t heal all her wounds.”

“We can’t make a fire without being seen,” objected Murtagh. “You’ll have to use
unwashed cloths, and the food will be cold.” Eragon grimaced but acquiesced. As he
gently laid a hand on the elf’s spine, Saphira settled next to him, her glittering eyes fixed
on the elf. He took a deep breath, then reached for the magic and started working.

He spoke the ancient words, “Waíse heill!” A burn shimmered under his palm, and new,
unmarked skin flowed over it, joining together without a scar. He passed over bruises or
other wounds that were not life-threatening—healing them all would consume the energy
he needed for more serious injuries. As Eragon toiled, he marveled that the elf was still
alive. She had been repeatedly tortured to the edge of death with a precision that chilled
him.

Although he tried to preserve the elf’s modesty, he could not help but notice that
underneath the disfiguring marks, her body was exceptionally beautiful. He was
exhausted and did not dwell upon it—though his ears turned red at times, and he
fervently hoped that Saphira did not know what he was thinking.

He labored through dawn, pausing only at brief intervals to eat and drink, trying to
replenish himself from his fast, the escape, and now healing the elf. Saphira remained by
his side, lending her strength where she could. The sun was well into the sky when he
finally stood, groaning as his cramped muscles stretched. His hands were gray and his
eyes felt dry and gritty. He stumbled to the saddlebags and took a long drink from the
wineskin. “Is it done?” asked Murtagh.

Eragon nodded, trembling. He did not trust himself to speak. The camp spun before him;
he nearly fainted.You did well, said Saphira soothingly.

“Will she live?”

“I don’t—don’t know,” he said in a ravaged voice. “Elves are strong, but even they
cannot endure abuse like this with impunity. If I knew more about healing, I might be
able to revive her, but . . .” He gestured helplessly. His hand was shaking so badly he
spilled some of the wine. Another swig helped to steady him. “We’d better start riding
again.”

“No! You must sleep,” protested Murtagh.

“I . . . can sleep in the saddle. But we can’t afford to stay here, not with the soldiers
closing on us.”

Murtagh reluctantly gave in. “In that case I’ll lead Snowfire while you rest.” They
resaddled the horses, strapped the elf onto Saphira, and departed the camp. Eragon ate


while he rode, trying to replace his depleted energy before he leaned forward against
Snowfire and closed his eyes.

WATER FROMSAND

When they stopped for the evening, Eragon felt no better and his temper had worsened.
Most of the day had been spent on long detours to avoid detection by soldiers with
hunting dogs. He dismounted Snowfire and asked Saphira,How is she?

I think no worse than before. She stirred slightly a few times, but that was all.Saphira
crouched low to the ground to let him lift the elf out of the saddle. For a moment her soft
form pressed against Eragon. Then he hurriedly put her down.

He and Murtagh made a small dinner. It was difficult for them to fight off the urge to
sleep. When they had eaten, Murtagh said, “We can’t keep up this pace; we aren’t
gaining any ground on the soldiers. Another day or two of this and they’ll be sure to
overtake us.”

“What else can we do?” snapped Eragon. “If it were just the two of us and you were
willing to leave Tornac behind, Saphira could fly us out of here. But with the elf, too?
Impossible.”

Murtagh looked at him carefully. “If you want to go your own way, I won’t stop you. I
can’t expect you and Saphira to stay and risk imprisonment.”

“Don’t insult me,” Eragon muttered. “The only reason I’m free is because of you. I’m not
going to abandon you to the Empire. Poor thanks that would be!”

Murtagh bowed his head. “Your words hearten me.” He paused. “But they don’t solve
our problem.”

“What can?” Eragon asked. He gestured at the elf. “I wish she could tell us where the
elves are; perhaps we could seek sanctuary with them.”

“Considering how they’ve protected themselves, I doubt she’d reveal their location. Even
if she did, the others of her kind might not welcome us. Why would they want to shelter
us anyway? The last Riders they had contact with were Galbatorix and the Forsworn. I
doubt that left them with pleasant memories. And I don’t even have the dubious honor of
being a Rider like you. No, they would not want me at all.”

They would accept us,said Saphira confidently as she shifted her wings to a more
comfortable position.


Eragon shrugged. “Even if they would protect us, we can’t find them, and it’s impossible
to ask the elf until she regains consciousness. We must flee, but in which direction—
north, south, east, or west?”

Murtagh laced his fingers together and pressed his thumbs against his temples. “I think
the only thing we can do is leave the Empire. The few safe places within it are far from
here. They would be difficult to reach without being caught or followed. . . . There’s
nothing for us to the north except the forest Du Weldenvarden—which we might be able
to hide in, but I don’t relish going back past Gil’ead. Only the Empire and the sea lie
westward. To the south is Surda, where you might be able to find someone to direct you
to the Varden. As for going east . . .” He shrugged. “To the east, the Hadarac Desert
stands between us and whatever lands exist in that direction. The Varden are somewhere
across it, but without directions it might take us years to find them.”

We would be safe, though,remarked Saphira.As long as we didn’t encounter any Urgals.

Eragon knitted his brow. A headache threatened to drown his thoughts in hot throbs. “It’s
too dangerous to go to Surda. We would have to traverse most of the Empire, avoiding
every town and village. There are too many people between us and Surda to get there
unnoticed.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “So you want to go across the desert?”

“I don’t see any other options. Besides, that way we can leave the Empire before the
Ra’zac get here. With their flying steeds, they’ll probably arrive in Gil’ead in a couple of
days, so we don’t have much time.”

“Even if we do reach the desert before they get here,” said Murtagh, “they could still
overtake us. It’ll be hard to outdistance them at all.”

Eragon rubbed Saphira’s side, her scales rough under his fingers. “That’s assuming they
can follow our trail. To catch us, though, they’ll have to leave the soldiers behind, which
is to our advantage. If it comes to a fight, I think the three of us can defeat them . . . as
long as we aren’t ambushed the way Brom and I were.”

“If we reach the other side of the Hadarac safely,” said Murtagh slowly, “where will we
go? Those lands are well outside of the Empire. There will be few cities, if any. And then
there is the desert itself. What do you know of it?”

“Only that it’s hot, dry, and full of sand,” confessed Eragon.

“That about sums it up,” replied Murtagh. “It’s filled with poisonous and inedible plants,
venomous snakes, scorpions, and a blistering sun. You saw the great plain on our way to
Gil’ead?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Eragon answered anyway, “Yes, and once before.”


“Then you are familiar with its immense range. It fills the heart of the Empire. Now
imagine something two or three times its size, and you’ll understand the vastness of the
Hadarac Desert. That is what you’re proposing to cross.”

Eragon tried to envision a piece of land that gigantic but was unable to grasp the
distances involved. He retrieved the map of Alagaësia from his saddlebags. The
parchment smelled musty as he unrolled it on the ground. He inspected the plains and
shook his head in amazement. “No wonder the Empire ends at the desert. Everything on
the other side is too far away for Galbatorix to control.”

Murtagh swept his hand over the right side of the parchment. “All the land beyond the
desert, which is blank on this map, was under one rule when the Riders lived. If the king
were to raise up new Riders under his command, it would allow him to expand the
Empire to an unprecedented size. But that wasn’t the point I was trying to make. The
Hadarac Desert is so huge and contains so many dangers, the chances are slim that we
can cross it unscathed. It is a desperate path to take.”

“Weare desperate,” said Eragon firmly. He studied the map carefully. “If we rode
through the belly of the desert, it would take well over a month, perhaps even two, to
cross it. But if we angle southeast, toward the Beor Mountains, we could cut through
much faster. Then we can either follow the Beor Mountains farther east into the
wilderness or go west to Surda. If this map is accurate, the distance between here and the
Beors is roughly equal to what we covered on our way to Gil’ead.”

“But that took us nearly a month!”

Eragon shook his head impatiently. “Our ride to Gil’ead was slow on account of my
injuries. If we press ourselves, it’ll take only a fraction of that time to reach the Beor
Mountains.”

“Enough. You made your point,” acknowledged Murtagh. “Before I consent, however,
something must be solved. As I’m sure you noticed, I bought supplies for us and the
horses while I was in Gil’ead. But how can we get enough water? The roving tribes who
live in the Hadarac usually disguise their wells and oases so no one can steal their water.
And carrying enough for more than a day is impractical. Just think about how much
Saphira drinks! She and the horses consume more water at one time than we do in a
week. Unless you can make it rain whenever we need, I don’t see how we can go the
direction you propose.”

Eragon rocked back on his heels. Making rain was well beyond his power. He suspected
that not even the strongest Rider could have done it. Moving that much air was like trying
to lift a mountain. He needed a solution that would not drain all of his strength.I wonder
if it’s possible to convert sand into water? That would solve our problem, but only if it
doesn’t take too much energy.


“I have an idea,” he said. “Let me experiment, then I’ll give you an answer.” Eragon
strode out of the camp, with Saphira following closely.

What are you going to try?she asked.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.Saphira, could you carry enough water for us?

She shook her enormous head.No, I wouldn’t even be able to lift that much weight, let
alone fly with it.

Too bad.He knelt and picked up a stone with a cavity large enough for a mouthful of
water. He pressed a clump of dirt into the hollow and studied it thoughtfully. Now came
the hard part. Somehow he had to convert the dirt into water.But what words should I
use? He puzzled over it for a moment, then picked two he hoped would work. The icy
magic rushed through him as he breached the familiar barrier in his mind and
commanded, “Deloi moi!”

Immediately the dirt began to absorb his strength at a prodigious rate. Eragon’s mind
flashed back to Brom’s warning that certain tasks could consume all of his power and
take his life. Panic blossomed in his chest. He tried to release the magic but could not. It
was linked to him until the task was complete or he was dead. All he could do was
remain motionless, growing weaker every moment.

Just as he became convinced that he would die kneeling there, the dirt shimmered and
morphed into a thimbleful of water. Relieved, Eragon sat back, breathing hard. His heart
pounded painfully and hunger gnawed at his innards.

What happened?asked Saphira.

Eragon shook his head, still in shock from the drain on his body’s reserves. He was glad
that he had not tried to transmute anything larger.This . . . this won’t work, he said.I don’t
even have the strength to give myself a drink.

You should have been more careful,she chided.Magic can yield unexpected results when
the ancient words are combined in new ways.

He glared at her.I know that, but this was the only way I could test my idea. I wasn’t
going to wait until we were in the desert! He reminded himself that she was only trying to
help.How did you turn Brom’s grave into diamond without killing yourself? I can barely
handle a bit of dirt, much less all that sandstone.

I don’t know how I did it,she stated calmly.It just happened.

Could you do it again, but this time make water?


Eragon,she said, looking him squarely in the face.I’ve no more control over my abilities
than a spider does. Things like that occur whether I will them or not. Brom told you that
unusual events happen around dragons. He spoke truly. He gave no explanation for it,
nor do I have one. Sometimes I can work changes just by feel, almost without thought.
The rest of the time—like right now—I’m as powerless as Snowfire.

You’re never powerless,he said softly, putting a hand on her neck. For a long period they
were both quiet. Eragon remembered the grave he had made and how Brom lay within it.
He could still see the sandstone flowing over the old man’s face. “At least we gave him a
decent burial,” he whispered.

He idly swirled a finger in the dirt, making twisting ridges. Two of the ridges formed a
miniature valley, so he added mountains around it. With his fingernail he scratched a
river down the valley, then deepened it because it seemed too shallow. He added a few
more details until he found himself staring at a passable reproduction of Palancar Valley.
Homesickness welled up within him, and he obliterated the valley with a swipe of his
hand.

I don’t want to talk about it,he muttered angrily, staving off Saphira’s questions. He
crossed his arms and glared at the ground. Almost against his will, his eyes flicked back
to where he had gouged the earth. He straightened, surprised. Though the ground was
dry, the furrow he had made was lined with moisture. Curious, he scraped away more dirt
and found a damp layer a few inches under the surface. “Look at this!” he said excitedly.

Saphira lowered her nose to his discovery.How does this help us? Water in the desert is
sure to be buried so deeply we would have to dig for weeks to find it.

Yes,said Eragon delightedly,but as long as it’s there, I can get it. Watch! He deepened the
hole, then mentally accessed the magic. Instead of changing the dirt into water, he simply
summoned forth the moisture that was already in the earth. With a faint trickle, water
rushed into the hole. He smiled and sipped from it. The liquid was cool and pure, perfect
for drinking.See! We can get all we need.

Saphira sniffed the pool.Here, yes. But in the desert? There may not be enough water in
the ground for you to bring to the surface.

It will work,Eragon assured her.All I’m doing is lifting the water, an easy enough task. As
long as it’s done slowly, my strength will hold. Even if I have to draw the water from fifty
paces down, it won’t be a problem. Especially if you help me.

Saphira looked at him dubiously.Are you sure? Think carefully upon your answer, for it
will mean our lives if you are wrong.

Eragon hesitated, then said firmly,I’m sure.

Then go tell Murtagh. I will keep watch while you sleep.


But you’ve stayed up all night like us,he objected.You should rest.

I’ll be fine—I’m stronger than you know,she said gently. Her scales rustled as she curled
up with a watchful eye turned northward, toward their pursuers. Eragon hugged her, and
she hummed deeply, sides vibrating.Go.

He lingered, then reluctantly returned to Murtagh, who asked, “Well? Is the desert open
to us?”

“It is,” acknowledged Eragon. He flopped onto his blankets and explained what he had
learned. When he finished, Eragon turned to the elf. Her face was the last thing he saw
before falling asleep.

THERAMRRIVER

They forced themselves to rise early in the gray predawn hours. Eragon shivered in the
cool air. “How are we going to transport the elf? She can’t ride on Saphira’s back much
longer without getting sores from her scales. Saphira can’t carry her in her claws—it tires
her and makes landing dangerous. A sledge won’t work; it would get battered to pieces
while we ride, and I don’t want the horses slowed by the weight of another person.”

Murtagh considered the matter as he saddled Tornac. “If you were to ride Saphira, we
could lash the elf onto Snowfire, but we’d have the same problem with sores.”

I have a solution,said Saphira unexpectedly.Why don’t you tie the elf to my belly? I’ll still
be able to move freely, and she will be safer than anywhere else. The only danger will be
if soldiers shoot arrows at me, but I can easily fly above those.

None of them could come up with a better idea, so they quickly adopted hers. Eragon
folded one of his blankets in half lengthwise, secured it around the elf’s petite form, then
took her to Saphira. Blankets and spare clothes were sacrificed to form ropes long enough
to encircle Saphira’s girth. With those ropes, the elf was tied back-first against Saphira’s
belly, her head between Saphira’s front legs. Eragon looked critically at their handiwork.
“I’m afraid your scales may rub through the ropes.”

“We’ll have to check them occasionally for fraying,” commented Murtagh.

Shall we go now?Saphira asked, and Eragon repeated the question.

Murtagh’s eyes sparked dangerously, a tight smile lifting his lips. He glanced back the
way they had come, where smoke from soldiers’ camps was clearly visible, and said, “I
always did like races.”

“And now we are in one for our lives!”


Murtagh swung into Tornac’s saddle and trotted out of the camp. Eragon followed close
behind on Snowfire. Saphira jumped into the air with the elf. She flew low to the ground
to avoid being seen by the soldiers. In this fashion, the three of them made their way
southeast toward the distant Hadarac Desert.

Eragon kept a quick eye out for pursuers as he rode. His mind repeatedly wandered back
to the elf.An elf! He had actually seen one, and she was with them! He wondered what
Roran would think of that. It struck him that if he ever returned to Carvahall, he would
have a hard time convincing anyone that his adventures had actually occurred.

For the rest of the day, Eragon and Murtagh sped through the land, ignoring discomfort
and fatigue. They drove the horses as hard as they could without killing them. Sometimes
they dismounted and ran on foot to give Tornac and Snowfire a rest. Only twice did they
stop—both times to let the horses eat and drink.

Though the soldiers of Gil’ead were far behind now, Eragon and Murtagh found
themselves having to avoid new soldiers every time they passed a town or village.
Somehow the alarm had been sent ahead of them. Twice they were nearly ambushed
along the trail, escaping only because Saphira happened to smell the men ahead of them.
After the second incident, they avoided the trail entirely.

Dusk softened the countryside as evening drew a black cloak across the sky. Through the
night they traveled, relentlessly pacing out the miles. In the deepest hours of night, the
ground rose beneath them to form low cactus-dotted hills.

Murtagh pointed forward. “There’s a town, Bullridge, some leagues ahead that we must
bypass. They’re sure to have soldiers watching for us. We should try to slip past them
now while it’s dark.”

After three hours they saw the straw-yellow lanterns of Bullridge. A web of soldiers
patrolled between watch fires scattered around the town. Eragon and Murtagh muffled
their sword sheaths and carefully dismounted. They led the horses in a wide detour
around Bullridge, listening attentively to avoid stumbling on an encampment.

With the town behind them, Eragon relaxed slightly. Daybreak finally flooded the sky
with a delicate blush and warmed the chilly night air. They halted on the crest of a hill to
observe their surroundings. The Ramr River was to their left, but it was also five miles to
their right. The river continued south for several leagues, then doubled back on itself in a
narrow loop before curving west. They had covered over sixteen leagues in one day.

Eragon leaned against Snowfire’s neck, happy with the distance they had gone. “Let’s
find a gully or hollow where we can sleep undisturbed.” They stopped at a small stand of
juniper trees and laid their blankets beneath them. Saphira waited patiently as they untied
the elf from her belly.


“I’ll take the first watch and wake you at midmorning,” said Murtagh, setting his bare
sword across his knees. Eragon mumbled his assent and pulled the blankets over his
shoulders.

Nightfall found them worn and drowsy but determined to continue. As they prepared to
leave, Saphira observed to Eragon,This is the third night since we rescued you from
Gil’ead, and the elf still hasn’t woken. I’m worried. And, she continued,she has neither
drunk nor eaten in that time. I know little of elves, but she is slender, and I doubt she can
survive much longer without nourishment.

“What’s wrong?” asked Murtagh over Tornac’s back.

“The elf,” said Eragon, looking down at her. “Saphira is troubled that she hasn’t woken
or eaten; it disturbs me too. I healed her wounds, at least on the surface, but it doesn’t
seem to have done her any good.”

“Maybe the Shade tampered with her mind,” suggested Murtagh.

“Then we have to help her.”

Murtagh knelt by the elf. He examined her intently, then shook his head and stood. “As
far as I can tell, she’s only sleeping. It seems as if I could wake her with a word or a
touch, yet she slumbers on. Her coma might be something elves self-induce to escape the
pain of injury, but if so, why doesn’t she end it? There’s no danger to her now.”

“But does she know that?” asked Eragon quietly.

Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder. “This must wait. We have to leave now or risk
losing our hard-won lead. You can tend to her later when we stop.”

“One thing first,” said Eragon. He soaked a rag, then squeezed the cloth so water dripped
between the elf’s sculpted lips. He did that several times and dabbed above her straight,
angled eyebrows, feeling oddly protective.

They headed through the hills, avoiding the tops for fear of being spotted by sentries.
Saphira stayed with them on the ground for the same reason. Despite her bulk, she was
stealthy; only her tail could be heard scraping over the ground, like a thick blue snake.

Eventually the sky brightened in the east. The morning star Aiedail appeared as they
reached the edge of a steep bank covered with mounds of brush. Water roared below as it
tore over boulders and sluiced through branches.


“The Ramr!” said Eragon over the noise.
Murtagh nodded. “Yes! We have to find a place to ford safely.”
That isn’t necessary,said Saphira.I can carry you across, no matter how wide the river is.
Eragon looked up at her blue-gray form.What about the horses? We can’t leave them


behind. They’re too heavy for you to lift.
As long as you’re not on them and they don’t struggle too much, I’m sure that I can carry


them. If I can dodge arrows with three people on my back, I can certainly fly a horse in a
straight line over a river.
I believe you, but let’s not attempt it unless we have to. It’s too dangerous.
She clambered down the embankment.We can’t afford to squander time here.
Eragon followed her, leading Snowfire. The bank came to an abrupt end at the Ramr,


where the river ran dark and swift. White mist wafted up from the water, like blood
steaming in winter. It was impossible to see the far side. Murtagh tossed a branch into the
torrent and watched it race away, bobbing on the rough water.

“How deep do you think it is?” asked Eragon.

“I can’t tell,” said Murtagh, worry coloring his voice. “Can you see how far across it is
with magic?”
“I don’t think so, not without lighting up this place like a beacon.”
With a gust of air, Saphira took off and soared over the Ramr. After a short time, she


said,I’m on the other bank. The river is over a half-mile wide. You couldn’t have chosen a
worse place to cross; the Ramr bends at this point and is at its widest.

“A half-mile!” exclaimed Eragon. He told Murtagh about Saphira’s offer to fly them.

“I’d rather not try it, for the horses’ sake. Tornac isn’t as accustomed to Saphira as
Snowfire. He might panic and injure them both. Ask Saphira to look for shallows where
we can swim over safely. If there aren’t any within a mile in either direction, then I
suppose she can ferry us.”

At Eragon’s request, Saphira agreed to search for a ford. While she explored, they
hunkered next to the horses and ate dry bread. It was not long before Saphira returned,
her velvet wings whispering in the early dawn sky.The water is both deep and strong,
upstream as well as downstream.


Once he was told, Murtagh said, “I’d better go over first, so I can watch the horses.” He
scrambled onto Saphira’s saddle. “Be careful with Tornac. I’ve had him for many years. I
don’t want anything to happen to him.” Then Saphira took off.

When she returned, the unconscious elf had been untied from her belly. Eragon led
Tornac to Saphira, ignoring the horse’s low whinnies. Saphira reared back on her
haunches to grasp the horse around the belly with her forelegs. Eragon eyed her
formidable claws and said, “Wait!” He repositioned Tornac’s saddle blanket, strapping it
to the horse’s belly so it protected his soft underside, then gestured for Saphira to
proceed.

Tornac snorted in fright and tried to bolt when Saphira’s forelegs clamped around his
sides, but she held him tightly. The horse rolled his eyes wildly, the whites rimming his
dilated pupils. Eragon tried to gentle Tornac with his mind, but the horse’s panic resisted
his touch. Before Tornac could try to escape again, Saphira jumped skyward, her hind
legs thrusting with such force that her claws gouged the rocks underneath. Her wings
strained furiously, struggling to lift the enormous load. For a moment it seemed she
would fall back to the ground. Then, with a lunge, she shot into the air. Tornac screamed
in terror, kicking and tossing. It was a terrible sound, like screeching metal.

Eragon swore, wondering if anyone was close enough to hear.You’d better hurry,
Saphira. He listened for soldiers as he waited, scanning the inky landscape for the telltale
flash of torches. It soon met his eye in a line of horsemen sliding down a bluff almost a
league away.

As Saphira landed, Eragon brought Snowfire to her.Murtagh’s silly animal is in hysterics.
He had to tie Tornac down to prevent him from running away. She gripped Snowfire and
carried him off, ignoring the horse’s trumpeted protestations. Eragon watched her go,
feeling lonely in the night. The horsemen were only a mile away.

Finally Saphira came for him, and they were soon on firm ground once more, with the
Ramr to their backs. Once the horses were calmed and the saddles readjusted, they
resumed their flight toward the Beor Mountains. The air filled with the calls of birds
waking to a new day.

Eragon dozed even when walking. He was barely aware that Murtagh was just as drowsy.
There were times when neither of them guided the horses, and it was only Saphira’s
vigilance that kept them on course.

Eventually the ground became soft and gave way under their feet, forcing them to halt.
The sun was high overhead. The Ramr River was no more than a fuzzy line behind them.

They had reached the Hadarac Desert.