Eragon Part 3

THEHADARACDESERT


Avast expanse of dunes spread to the horizon like ripples on an ocean. Bursts of wind
twirled the reddish gold sand into the air. Scraggly trees grew on scattered patches of
solid ground—ground any farmer would have declared unfit for crops. Rising in the
distance was a line of purple crags. The imposing desolation was barren of any animals
except for a bird gliding on the zephyrs.

“You’re sure we’ll find food for the horses out there?” queried Eragon, slurring his
words. The hot, dry air stung his throat.

“See those?” asked Murtagh, indicating the crags. “Grass grows around them. It’s short
and tough, but the horses will find it sufficient.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Eragon, squinting at the sun. “Before we continue, let’s rest.
My mind is slow as a snail, and I can barely move my legs.”

They untied the elf from Saphira, ate, then lay in the shadow of a dune for a nap. As
Eragon settled into the sand, Saphira coiled up next to him and spread her wings over
them.This is a wondrous place, she said.I could spend years here and not notice the
passing time.

Eragon closed his eyes.It would be a nice place to fly, he agreed drowsily.

Not only that, I feel as though I was made for this desert. It has the space I need,
mountains where I could roost, and camouflaged prey that I could spend days hunting.
And the warmth! Cold does not disturb me, but this heat makes me feel alive and full of
energy.She craned her head toward the sky, stretching happily.

You like it that much?mumbled Eragon.

Yes.

Then when this is all done, perhaps we can return. . . .He drifted into slumber even as he
spoke. Saphira was pleased and hummed gently while he and Murtagh rested.

It was the morning of the fourth day since leaving Gil’ead. They had already covered
thirty-five leagues.

They slept just long enough to clear their minds and rest the horses. No soldiers could be
seen to the rear, but that did not lull them into slowing their pace. They knew that the
Empire would keep searching until they were far beyond the king’s reach. Eragon said,
“Couriers must have carried news of my escape to Galbatorix. He would have alerted the
Ra’zac. They’re sure to be on our trail by now. It’ll take them a while to catch us even by
flying, but we should be ready for them at all times.”


And this time they will find I am not so easily bound with chains,said Saphira.

Murtagh scratched his chin. “I hope they won’t be able to follow us past Bullridge. The
Ramr was an effective way to lose pursuers; there’s a good chance our tracks won’t be
found again.”

“Something to hope for indeed,” said Eragon as he checked the elf. Her condition was
unchanged; she still did not react to his ministrations. “I place no faith in luck right now,
though. The Ra’zac could be on our trail even as we speak.”

At sunset they arrived at the crags they had viewed from afar that morning. The imposing
stone bluffs towered over them, casting thin shadows. The surrounding area was free of
dunes for a half mile. Heat assailed Eragon like a physical blow as he dismounted
Snowfire onto the baked, cracked ground. The back of his neck and his face were
sunburned; his skin was hot and feverish.

After picketing the horses where they could nibble the sparse grass, Murtagh started a
small fire. “How far do you think we went?” Eragon asked, releasing the elf from
Saphira.

“I don’t know!” snapped Murtagh. His skin was red, his eyes bloodshot. He picked up a
pot and muttered a curse. “We don’t have enough water. And the horses have to drink.”

Eragon was just as irritated by the heat and dryness, but he held his temper in check.
“Bring the horses.” Saphira dug a hole for him with her claws, then he closed his eyes,
releasing the spell. Though the ground was parched, there was enough moisture for the
plants to live on and enough for him to fill the hole several times over.

Murtagh refilled the waterskins as water pooled in the hole, then stood aside and let the
horses drink. The thirsty animals quaffed gallons. Eragon was forced to draw the liquid
from ever deeper in the earth to satisfy their desire. It taxed his strength to the limit.
When the horses were finally sated, he said to Saphira,If you need a drink, take it now.
Her head snaked around him and she took two long draughts, but no more.

Before letting the water flow back into the ground, Eragon gulped down as much as he
could, then watched the last drops melt back into the dirt. Holding the water on the
surface was harder than he had expected.But at least it’s within my abilities, he reflected,
remembering with some amusement how he had once struggled to lift even a pebble.

It was freezing when they rose the next day. The sand had a pink hue in the morning
light, and the sky was hazy, concealing the horizon. Murtagh’s mood had not improved


with sleep, and Eragon found his own rapidly deteriorating. During breakfast, he asked,
“Do you think it’ll be long before we leave the desert?”

Murtagh glowered. “We’re only crossing a small section of it, so I can’t imagine that it’ll
take us more than two or three days.”

“But look how far we’ve already come.”

“All right, maybe it won’t! All I care about right now is getting out of the Hadarac as
quickly as possible. What we’re doing is hard enough without having to pick sand from
our eyes every few minutes.”

They finished eating, then Eragon went to the elf. She lay as one dead—a corpse except
for her measured breathing. “Where lies your injury?” whispered Eragon, brushing a
strand of hair from her face. “How can you sleep like this and yet live?” The image of
her, alert and poised in the prison cell, was still vivid in his mind. Troubled, he prepared
the elf for travel, then saddled and mounted Snowfire.

As they left the camp, a line of dark smudges became visible on the horizon, indistinct in
the hazy air. Murtagh thought they were distant hills. Eragon was not convinced, but he
could make out no details.

The elf’s plight filled his thoughts. He was sure that something had to be done to help her
or she would die, though he knew not what that might be. Saphira was just as concerned.
They talked about it for hours, but neither of them knew enough about healing to solve
the problem confronting them.

At midday they stopped for a brief rest. When they resumed their journey, Eragon noticed
that the haze had thinned since morning, and the distant smudges had gained definition.

No longer were they indistinct purple-blue lumps, but rather broad, forest-covered
mounds with clear outlines. The air above them was pale white, bleached of its usual
hue—all color seemed to have been leached out of a horizontal band of sky that lay on
top of the hills and extended to the horizon’s edges.

He stared, puzzled, but the more he tried to make sense of it, the more confused he
became. He blinked and shook his head, thinking that it must be some illusion of the
desert air. Yet when he opened his eyes, the annoying incongruity was still there. Indeed,
the whiteness blanketed half the sky before them. Sure that something was terribly
wrong, he started to point this out to Murtagh and Saphira when he suddenly understood
what he was seeing.

What they had taken to be hills were actually the bases of gigantic mountains, scores of
miles wide. Except for the dense forest along their lower regions, the mountains were
entirely covered with snow and ice. It was this that had deceived Eragon into thinking the
sky white. He craned back his neck, searching for the peaks, but they were not visible.


The mountains stretched up into the sky until they faded from sight. Narrow, jagged
valleys with ridges that nearly touched split the mountains like deep gorges. It was like a
ragged, toothy wall linking Alagaësia with the heavens.

There’s no end to them!he thought, awestruck. Stories that mentioned the Beor
Mountains always noted their size, but he had discounted such reports as fanciful
embellishments. Now, however, he was forced to acknowledge their authenticity.

Sensing his wonder and surprise, Saphira followed his gaze with her own. Within a few
seconds she recognized the mountains for what they were.I feel like a hatchling again.
Compared to them, even I feel small!

We must be near the edge of the desert,said Eragon.It’s only taken two days and we can
already see the far side and beyond!

Saphira spiraled above the dunes.Yes, but considering the size of those peaks, they could
still be fifty leagues from here. It’s hard to gauge distances against something so
immense. Wouldn’t they be a perfect hiding place for the elves or the Varden?

You could hide more than the elves and Varden,he stated.Entire nations could exist in
secret there, hidden from the Empire. Imagine living with those behemoths looming over
you!He guided Snowfire to Murtagh and pointed, grinning.

“What?” grunted Murtagh, scanning the land.

“Look closely,” urged Eragon.

Murtagh peered closely at the horizon. He shrugged. “What, I don’t—” The words died
in his mouth and gave way to slack-jawed wonder. Murtagh shook his head, muttering,
“That’s impossible!” He squinted so hard that the corners of his eyes crinkled. He shook
his head again. “I knew the Beor Mountains were large, but not that monstrous size!”

“Let’s hope the animals that live there aren’t in proportion to the mountains,” said Eragon
lightly.

Murtagh smiled. “It will be good to find some shade and spend a few weeks in leisure.
I’ve had enough of this forced march.”

“I’m tired too,” admitted Eragon, “but I don’t want to stop until the elf is cured . . . or she
dies.”

“I don’t see how continuing to travel will help her,” said Murtagh gravely. “A bed will do
her more good than hanging underneath Saphira all day.”

Eragon shrugged. “Maybe . . . When we reach the mountains, I could take her to Surda—
it’s not that far. There must be a healer there who can help her; we certainly can’t.”


Murtagh shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at the mountains. “We can talk about it
later. For now our goal is to reach the Beors. There, at least, the Ra’zac will have trouble
finding us, and we will be safe from the Empire.”

As the day wore on, the Beor Mountains seemed to get no closer, though the landscape
changed dramatically. The sand slowly transformed from loose grains of reddish hue to
hard-packed, dusky-cream dirt. In place of dunes were ragged patches of plants and deep
furrows in the ground where flooding had occurred. A cool breeze wafted through the air,
bringing welcome refreshment. The horses sensed the change of climate and hurried
forward eagerly.

When evening subdued the sun, the mountains’ foothills were a mere league away. Herds
of gazelles bounded through lush fields of waving grass. Eragon caught Saphira eyeing
them hungrily. They camped by a stream, relieved to be out of the punishing Hadarac
Desert.

APATHREVEALED

Fatigued and haggard, but with triumphant smiles, they sat around the fire,
congratulating each other. Saphira crowed jubilantly, which startled the horses. Eragon
stared at the flames. He was proud that they had covered roughly sixty leagues in five
days. It was an impressive feat, even for a rider able to change mounts regularly.

I am outside of the Empire.It was a strange thought. He had been born in the Empire,
lived his entire life under Galbatorix’s rule, lost his closest friends and family to the
king’s servants, and had nearly died several times within his domain. Now Eragon was
free. No more would he and Saphira have to dodge soldiers, avoid towns, or hide who
they were. It was a bittersweet realization, for the cost had been the loss of his entire
world.

He looked at the stars in the gloaming sky. And though the thought of building a home in
the safety of isolation appealed to him, he had witnessed too many wrongs committed in
Galbatorix’s name, from murder to slavery, to turn his back on the Empire. No longer
was it just vengeance—for Brom’s death as well as Garrow’s—that drove him. As a
Rider, it was his duty to assist those without strength to resist Galbatorix’s oppression.

With a sigh he abandoned his deliberation and observed the elf stretched out by Saphira.
The fire’s orange light gave her face a warm cast. Smooth shadows flickered under her
cheekbones. As he stared, an idea slowly came to him.

He could hear the thoughts of people and animals—and communicate with them in that
manner if he chose to—but it was something he had done infrequently except with
Saphira. He always remembered Brom’s admonishment not to violate someone’s mind
unless absolutely necessary. Save for the one time he had tried to probe Murtagh’s
consciousness, he had refrained from doing so.


Now, however, he wondered if it were possible to contact the elf in her comatose state.I
might be able to learn from her memories why she remains like this. But if she recovers,
would she forgive me for such an intrusion? . . . Whether she does or not, I must try.
She’s been in this condition for almost a week. Without speaking of his intentions to
Murtagh or Saphira, he knelt by the elf and placed his palm on her brow.

Eragon closed his eyes and extended a tendril of thought, like a probing finger, toward
the elf’s mind. He found it without difficulty. It was not fuzzy and filled with pain as he
had anticipated, but lucid and clear, like a note from a crystal bell. Suddenly an icy
dagger drove into his mind. Pain exploded behind his eyes with splashes of color. He
recoiled from the attack but found himself held in an iron grip, unable to retreat.

Eragon fought as hard as he could and used every defense he could think of. The dagger
stabbed into his mind again. He frantically threw his own barriers before it, blunting the
attack. The pain was less excruciating than the first time, but it jarred his concentration.
The elf took the opportunity to ruthlessly crush his defenses.

A stifling blanket pressed down on Eragon from all directions, smothering his thoughts.
The overpowering force slowly contracted, squeezing the life out of him bit by bit,
though he held on, unwilling to give up.

The elf tightened her relentless grip even more, so as to extinguish him like a snuffed
candle. He desperately cried in the ancient language, “Eka aí fricai un Shur’tugal!” I am a
Rider and friend! The deadly embrace did not loosen its hold, but its constriction halted
and surprise emanated from her.

Suspicion followed a second later, but he knew she would believe him; he could not have
lied in the ancient language. However, while he had said he was a friend, that did not
mean he meant her no harm. For all she knew, Eragon believed himself to be her friend,
making the statement true for him, thoughshe might not consider him one.The ancient
language does have its limitations, thought Eragon, hoping that the elf would be curious
enough to risk freeing him.

She was. The pressure lifted, and the barriers around her mind hesitantly lowered. The elf
warily let their thoughts touch, like two wild animals meeting for the first time. A cold
shiver ran down Eragon’s side. Her mind was alien. It felt vast and powerful, weighted
with memories of uncounted years. Dark thoughts loomed out of sight and touch, artifacts
of her race that made him cringe when they brushed his consciousness. Yet through all
the sensations shimmered a melody of wild, haunting beauty that embodied her identity.

What is your name?she asked, speaking in the ancient language. Her voice was weary
and filled with quiet despair.

Eragon. And yours?Her consciousness lured him closer, inviting him to submerge
himself in the lyric strains of her blood. He resisted the summons with difficulty, though
his heart ached to accept it. For the first time he understood the fey attraction of elves.


They were creatures of magic, unbound by the mortal laws of the land—as different from
humans as dragons were from animals.

. . . Arya. Why have you contacted me in this manner? Am I still a captive of theEmpire?

No, you are free!said Eragon. Though he knew only scattered words in the ancient
language, he managed to convey:I was imprisoned in Gil’ead, like you, but I escaped and
rescued you. In the five days since then, we’ve crossed the edge of the Hadarac Desert
and are now camped by the Beor Mountains. You’ve not stirred nor said a word in all
that time.

Ah . . . so it was Gil’ead.She paused.I know that my wounds were healed. At the time I did
not understand why—preparation for some new torture, I was certain. Now I realize it
was you. Softly she added,Even so, I have not risen, and you are puzzled.

Yes.

During my captivity, a rare poison, the Skilna Bragh, was given to me, along with the
drug to suppress my power. Every morning the antidote for the previous day’s poison
was administered to me, by force if I refused to take it. Without it I will die within a few
hours. That is why I lie in this trance—it slows the Skilna Bragh’s progress, though does
not stop it. . . . I contemplated waking for the purpose of ending my life and
denyingGalbatorix, but I refrained from doing so out of hope that you might be an ally. . .
.Her voice dwindled off weakly.

How long can you remain like this?asked Eragon.

For weeks, but I’m afraid I haven’t that much time. This dormancy cannot restrain death
forever . . . I can feel it in my veins even now. Unless I receive the antidote, I will
succumb to the poison in three or four days.

Where can the antidote be found?

It exists in only two places outside of the Empire: with my own people and with the
Varden. However, my home is beyond the reach of dragonback.

What about the Varden? We would have taken you straight to them, but we don’t know
where they are.

I will tell you—if you give me your word that you will never reveal their location to
Galbatorix or to anyone who serves him. In addition you must swear that you have not
deceived me in some manner and that you intend no harm to the elves, dwarves, Varden,
or the race of dragons.

What Arya asked for would have been simple enough—if they had not been conversing
in the ancient language. Eragon knew she wanted oaths more binding than life itself.


Once made, they could never be broken. That weighed heavily on him as he gravely
pledged his word in agreement.

It is understood. . . .A series of vertigo-inducing images suddenly flashed through his
mind. He found himself riding along the Beor Mountain range, traveling eastward many
leagues. Eragon did his best to remember the route as craggy mountains and hills flashed
past. He was heading south now, still following the mountains. Then everything wheeled
abruptly, and he entered a narrow, winding valley. It snaked through the mountains to the
base of a frothy waterfall that pounded into a deep lake.

The images stopped.It is far, said Arya,but do not let the distance dissuade you. When
you arrive at the lake Kóstha-mérna at the end of the Beartooth River, take a rock, bang
on the cliff next to the waterfall, and cry, Aí varden abr du Shur’tugals gata vanta.You
will be admitted. You will be challenged, but do not falter no matter how perilous it
seems.

What should they give you for the poison?he asked.

Her voice quavered, but then she regained her strength.Tell them—to give me Túnivor’s
Nectar. You must leave me now . . . I have expended too much energy already. Do not
talk with me again unless there is no hope of reaching the Varden. If that is the case,
there is information I must impart to you so the Varden will survive. Farewell, Eragon,
rider of dragons . . . my life is in your hands.

Arya withdrew from their contact. The unearthly strains that had echoed across their link
were gone. Eragon took a shuddering breath and forced his eyes open. Murtagh and
Saphira stood on either side of him, watching with concern. “Are you all right?” asked
Murtagh. “You’ve been kneeling here for almost fifteen minutes.”

“I have?” asked Eragon, blinking.

Yes, and grimacing like a pained gargoyle,commented Saphira dryly.

Eragon stood, wincing as his cramped knees stretched. “I talked with Arya!” Murtagh
frowned quizzically, as if to inquire if he had gone mad. Eragon explained, “The elf—
that’s her name.”

And what is it that ails her?asked Saphira impatiently.

Eragon swiftly told them of his entire discussion. “How far away are the Varden?” asked
Murtagh.

“I’m not exactly sure,” confessed Eragon. “From what she showed me, I think it’s even
farther than from here to Gil’ead.”


“And we’re supposed to cover that in three or four days?” demanded Murtagh angrily. “It
took us fivelong days to get here! What do you want to do, kill the horses? They’re
exhausted as it is.”

“But if we do nothing, she’ll die! If it’s too much for the horses, Saphira can fly ahead
with Arya and me; at least we would get to the Varden in time. You could catch up with
us in a few days.”

Murtagh grunted and crossed his arms. “Of course. Murtagh the pack animal. Murtagh
the horse leader. I should have remembered that’s all I’m good for nowadays. Oh, and
let’s not forget, every soldier in the Empire is searching for me now because you couldn’t
defend yourself, and I had to go andsave you. Yes, I suppose I’ll just follow your
instructions and bring up the horses in the rear like a good servant.”

Eragon was bewildered by the sudden venom in Murtagh’s voice. “What’s wrong with
you? I’m grateful for what you did. There’s no reason to be angry with me! I didn’t ask
you to accompany me or to rescue me from Gil’ead. You chose that. I haven’t forced you
to do anything.”

“Oh, not openly, no. What else could I do but help you with the Ra’zac? And then later,
at Gil’ead, how could I have left with a clear conscience? The problem with you,” said
Murtagh, poking Eragon in the chest, “is that you’re so totally helpless you force
everyone to take care of you!”

The words stung Eragon’s pride; he recognized a grain of truth in them. “Don’t touch
me,” he growled.

Murtagh laughed, a harsh note in his voice. “Or what, you’ll punch me? You couldn’t hit
a brick wall.” He went to shove Eragon again, but Eragon grabbed his arm and struck him
in the stomach.

“I said, don’t touch me!”

Murtagh doubled over, swearing. Then he yelled and launched himself at Eragon. They
fell in a tangle of arms and legs, pounding on each other. Eragon kicked at Murtagh’s
right hip, missed, and grazed the fire. Sparks and burning embers scattered through the
air.

They scrabbled across the ground, trying to get leverage. Eragon managed to get his feet
under Murtagh’s chest and kicked mightily. Murtagh flew upside down over Eragon’s
head, landing flat on his back with a solid thump.

Murtagh’s breath whooshed out. He rolled stiffly to his feet, then wheeled to face Eragon,
panting heavily. They charged each other once more. Saphira’s tail slapped between
them, accompanied by a deafening roar. Eragon ignored her and tried to jump over her
tail, but a taloned paw caught him in midair and flung him back to the ground.


Enough!

He futilely tried to push Saphira’s muscled leg off his chest and saw that Murtagh was
likewise pinned. Saphira roared again, snapping her jaws. She swung her head over
Eragon and glared at him.You of all people should know better! Fighting like starving
dogs over a scrap of meat. What would Brom say?

Eragon felt his cheeks burn and averted his eyes. He knew what Brom would have said.
Saphira held them on the ground, letting them simmer, then said to Eragon
pointedly,Now, if you don’t want to spend the night under my foot, you will politely ask
Murtagh what is troubling him. She snaked her head over to Murtagh and stared down at
him with an impassive blue eye.And tell him that I won’t stand for insults from either of
you.

Won’t you let us up?complained Eragon.

No.

Eragon reluctantly turned his head toward Murtagh, tasting blood in the side of his
mouth. Murtagh avoided his eyes and looked up at the sky. “Well, is she going to get off
us?”

“No, not unless we talk. . . . She wants me to ask you what’s really the problem,” said
Eragon, embarrassed.

Saphira growled an affirmative and continued to stare at Murtagh. It was impossible for
him to escape her piercing glare. Finally he shrugged, muttering something under his
breath. Saphira’s claws tightened on his chest, and her tail whistled through the air.
Murtagh shot her an angry glance, then grudgingly said louder, “I told you before: I don’t
want to go to the Varden.”

Eragon frowned. Was that all that was the matter? “Don’t want to . . . or can’t?”

Murtagh tried to shove Saphira’s leg off him, then gave up with a curse. “Don’t want to!
They’ll expect things from me that I can’t deliver.”

“Did you steal something from them?”

“I wish it were that simple.”

Eragon rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Well, what is it, then? Did you kill someone
important or bed the wrong woman?”

“No, I was born,” said Murtagh cryptically. He pushed at Saphira again. This time she
released them both. They got to their feet under her watchful eye and brushed dirt from
their backs.


“You’re avoiding the question,” Eragon said, dabbing his split lip.

“So what?” spat Murtagh as he stomped to the edge of the camp. After a minute he
sighed. “It doesn’t matter why I’m in this predicament, but I can tell you that the Varden
wouldn’t welcome me even if I came bearing the king’s head. Oh, they might greet me
nicely enough and let me into their councils, but trust me? Never. And if I were to arrive
under less fortuitous circumstances, like the present ones, they’d likely clap me in irons.”

“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” asked Eragon. “I’ve done things I’m not proud
of, too, so it’s not as if I’m going to pass judgment.”

Murtagh shook his head slowly, eyes glistening. “It isn’t like that. I haven’tdone anything
to deserve this treatment, though it would have been easier to atone for if I had. No . . .
my only wrongdoing is existing in the first place.” He stopped and took a shaky breath.
“You see, my father—”

A sharp hiss from Saphira cut him off abruptly.Look!

They followed her gaze westward. Murtagh’s face paled. “Demons above and below!”

A league or so away, parallel to the mountain range, was a column of figures marching
east. The line of troops, hundreds strong, stretched for nearly a mile. Dust billowed from
their heels. Their weapons glinted in the dying light. A standard-bearer rode before them
in a black chariot, holding aloft a crimson banner.

“It’s the Empire,” said Eragon tiredly. “They’ve found us . . . somehow.” Saphira poked
her head over his shoulder and gazed at the column.

“Yes . . . but those are Urgals, not men,” said Murtagh.

“How can you tell?”

Murtagh pointed at the standard. “That flag bears the personal symbol of an Urgal
chieftain. He’s a ruthless brute, given to violent fits and insanity.”

“You’ve met him?”

Murtagh’s eyes tightened. “Once, briefly. I still have scars from that encounter. These
Urgals might not have been sent here for us, but I’m sure we’ve been seen by now and
that they will follow us. Their chieftain isn’t the sort to let a dragon escape his grasp,
especially if he’s heard about Gil’ead.”

Eragon hurried to the fire and covered it with dirt. “We have to flee! You don’t want to
go to the Varden, but I have to take Arya to them before she dies. Here’s a compromise:
come with me until I reach the lake Kóstha-mérna, then go your own way.” Murtagh


hesitated. Eragon added quickly, “If you leave now, in sight of the column, Urgals will
follow you. And then where will you be, facing them alone?”

“Very well,” said Murtagh, tossing his saddlebags over Tornac’s flanks, “but when we
near the Varden, Iwill leave.”

Eragon burned to question Murtagh further, but not with Urgals so near. He gathered his
belongings and saddled Snowfire. Saphira fanned her wings, took off in a rush, and
circled above. She kept guard over Murtagh and Eragon as they left camp.

What direction shall I fly?she asked.

East, along the Beors.

Stilling her wings, Saphira rose on an updraft and teetered on the pillar of warm air,
hovering in the sky over the horses. I wonder why the Urgals are here. Maybe they were
sent to attack the Varden.

Then we should try to warn them,he said, guiding Snowfire past half-visible obstacles. As
the night deepened, the Urgals faded into the gloom behind them.

ACLASH OFWILLS

When morning came, Eragon’s cheek was raw from chafing against Snowfire’s neck,
and he was sore from his fight with Murtagh. They had alternated sleeping in their
saddles throughout the night. It had allowed them to outdistance the Urgal troops, but
neither of them knew if the lead could be retained. The horses were exhausted to the
point of stopping, yet they still maintained a relentless pace. Whether it would be enough
to escape depended on how rested the monsters were . . . and if Eragon and Murtagh’s
horses survived.

The Beor Mountains cast great shadows over the land, stealing the sun’s warmth. To the
north was the Hadarac Desert, a thin white band as bright as noonday snow.

I must eat,said Saphira.Days have passed since I last hunted. Hunger claws my belly. If I
start now, I might be able to catch enough of those bounding deer for a few mouthfuls.

Eragon smiled at her exaggeration.Go if you must, but leave Arya here.

I will be swift.He untied the elf from her belly and transferred her to Snowfire’s saddle.
Saphira soared away, disappearing in the direction of the mountains. Eragon ran beside
the horses, close enough to Snowfire to keep Arya from falling. Neither he nor Murtagh
intruded on the silence. Yesterday’s fight no longer seemed as important because of the
Urgals, but the bruises remained.


Saphira made her kills within the hour and notified Eragon of her success. Eragon was
pleased that she would soon return. Her absence made him nervous.

They stopped at a pond to let the horses drink. Eragon idly plucked a stalk of grass,
twirling it while he stared at the elf. He was startled from his reverie by the steely rasp of
a sword being unsheathed. He instinctively grasped Zar’roc and spun around in search of
the enemy. There was only Murtagh, his long sword held ready. He pointed at a hill
ahead of them, where a tall, brown-cloaked man sat on a sorrel horse, mace in hand.
Behind him was a group of twenty horsemen. No one moved. “Could they be Varden?”
asked Murtagh.

Eragon surreptitiously strung his bow. “According to Arya, they’re still scores of leagues
away. This might be one of their patrols or raiding groups.”

“Assuming they’re not bandits.” Murtagh swung onto Tornac and readied his own bow.

“Should we try to outrun them?” asked Eragon, draping a blanket over Arya. The
horsemen must have seen her, but he hoped to conceal the fact that she was an elf.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” said Murtagh, shaking his head. “Tornac and Snowfire are
fine war-horses, but they’re tired, and they aren’t sprinters. Look at the horses those men
have; they’re meant for running. They would catch us before we had gone a half-mile.
Besides, they may have something important to say. You’d better tell Saphira to hurry
back.”

Eragon was already doing that. He explained the situation, then warned,Don’t show
yourself unless it’s necessary. We’re not in the Empire, but I still don’t want anyone to
know about you.

Never mind that,she replied.Remember, magic can protect you where speed and luck fail.
He felt her take off and race toward them, skimming close to the ground.

The band of men watched them from the hill.

Eragon nervously gripped Zar’roc. The wire-wrapped hilt was secure under his glove. He
said in a low voice, “If they threaten us, I can frighten them away with magic. If that
doesn’t work, there’s Saphira. I wonder how they’d react to a Rider? So many stories
have been told about their powers. . . . It might be enough to avoid a fight.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Murtagh flatly. “If there’s a fight, we’ll just have to kill enough
of them to convince them we’re not worth the effort.” His face was controlled and
unemotional.


The man on the sorrel horse signaled with his mace, sending the horsemen cantering
toward them. The men shook javelins over their heads, whooping loudly as they neared.
Battered sheaths hung from their sides. Their weapons were rusty and stained. Four of
them trained arrows on Eragon and Murtagh.

Their leader swirled the mace in the air, and his men responded with yells as they wildly
encircled Eragon and Murtagh. Eragon’s lips twitched. He almost loosed a blast of magic
into their midst, then restrained himself.We don’t know what they want yet, he reminded
himself, containing his growing apprehension.

The moment Eragon and Murtagh were thoroughly surrounded, the leader reined in his
horse, then crossed his arms and examined them critically. He raised his eyebrows.
“Well, these are better than the usual dregs we find! At least we got healthy ones this
time. And we didn’t even have to shoot them. Grieg will be pleased.” The men chuckled.

At his words, a sinking sensation filled Eragon’s gut. A suspicion stirred in his
mind.Saphira . . .

“Now as for you two,” said the leader, speaking to Eragon and Murtagh, “if you would be
so good as to drop your weapons, you’ll avoid being turned into living quivers by my
men.” The archers grinned suggestively; the men laughed again.

Murtagh’s only movement was to shift his sword. “Who are you and what do you want?
We are free men traveling through this land. You have no right to stop us.”

“Oh, I have every right,” said the man contemptuously. “And as for my name,slaves do
not address their masters in that manner, unless they want to be beaten.”

Eragon cursed to himself.Slavers! He remembered vividly the people he had seen at
auction in Dras-Leona. Rage boiled within him. He glared at the men around him with
new hatred and disgust.

The lines deepened on the leader’s face. “Throw down your swords and surrender!” The
slavers tensed, staring at them with cold eyes as neither Eragon nor Murtagh lowered his
weapon. Eragon’s palm tingled. He heard a rustle behind him, then a loud curse. Startled,
he spun around.

One of the slavers had pulled the blanket off Arya, revealing her face. He gaped in
astonishment, then shouted, “Torkenbrand, this one’s an elf!” The men stirred with
surprise while the leader spurred his horse over to Snowfire. He looked down at Arya and
whistled.

“Well, ’ow much is she worth?” someone asked.

Torkenbrand was quiet for a moment, then spread his hands and said, “At the very least?
Fortunes upon fortunes. The Empire will pay a mountain of gold for her!”


The slavers yelled with excitement and pounded each other on the back. A roar filled
Eragon’s mind as Saphira banked sharply far overhead.Attack now! he cried.But let them
escape if they run. She immediately folded her wings and plummeted downward. Eragon
caught Murtagh’s attention with a sharp signal. Murtagh took the cue. He smashed his
elbow into a slaver’s face, knocking the man out of his saddle, and jabbed his heels into
Tornac.

With a toss of his mane, the war-horse jumped forward, twirled around, and reared.
Murtagh brandished his sword as Tornac plunged back down, driving his forehooves into
the back of the dismounted slaver. The man screamed.

Before the slavers could gather their senses, Eragon scrambled out of the commotion and
raised his hands, invoking words in the ancient language. A globule of indigo fire struck
the ground in the midst of the fray, bursting into a fountain of molten drops that
dissipated like sun-warmed dew. A second later, Saphira dropped from the sky and
landed next to him. She parted her jaws, displaying her massive fangs, and bellowed.
“Behold!” cried Eragon over the furor, “I am a Rider!” He raised Zar’roc over his head,
the red blade dazzling in the sunlight, then pointed it at the slavers. “Flee if you wish to
live!”

The men shouted incoherently and scrambled over each other in their haste to escape. In
the confusion, Torkenbrand was struck in the temple with a javelin. He tumbled to the
ground, stunned. The men ignored their fallen leader and raced away in a ragged mass,
casting fearful looks at Saphira.

Torkenbrand struggled to his knees. Blood ran from his temple, branching across his
cheek with crimson tendrils. Murtagh dismounted and strode over to him, sword in hand.
Torkenbrand weakly raised his arm as if to ward off a blow. Murtagh gazed at him
coldly, then swung his blade at Torkenbrand’s neck. “No!” shouted Eragon, but it was
too late.

Torkenbrand’s decapitated trunk crumpled to the ground in a puff of dirt. His head landed
with a hard thump. Eragon rushed to Murtagh, his jaw working furiously. “Is your brain
rotten?” he yelled, enraged. “Why did you kill him?”

Murtagh wiped his sword on the back of Torkenbrand’s jerkin. The steel left a dark stain.
“I don’t see why you’re so upset—”

“Upset!” exploded Eragon. “I’m well past that! Did it even occur to you that we could
just leave him here and continue on our way? No! Instead you turn into an executioner
and chop off his head. He was defenseless!”

Murtagh seemed perplexed by Eragon’s wrath. “Well, we couldn’t keep him around—
hewas dangerous. The others ran off . . . without a horse he wouldn’t have made it far. I
didn’t want the Urgals to find him and learn about Arya. So I thought it would—”


“But tokill him?” interrupted Eragon. Saphira sniffed Torkenbrand’s head curiously. She
opened her mouth slightly, as if to snap it up, then appeared to decide better of it and
prowled to Eragon’s side.

“I’m only trying to stay alive,” stated Murtagh. “No stranger’s life is more important than
my own.”

“But you can’t indulge in wanton violence. Where is your empathy?” growled Eragon,
pointing at the head.

“Empathy? Empathy? What empathy can I afford my enemies? Shall I dither about
whether to defend myself because it will cause someone pain? If that had been the case, I
would have died years ago! You must be willing to protect yourself and what you
cherish, no matter what the cost.”

Eragon slammed Zar’roc back into its sheath, shaking his head savagely. “You can justify
any atrocity with that reasoning.”

“Do you think I enjoy this?” Murtagh shouted. “My life has been threatened from the day
I was born! All of my waking hours have been spent avoiding danger in one form or
another. And sleep never comes easily because I always worry if I’ll live to see the dawn.
If there ever was a time I felt secure, it must have been in my mother’s womb, though I
wasn’t safe even there! You don’t understand—if you lived with thisfear, you would
have learned the same lesson I did:Do not take chances. ” He gestured at Torkenbrand’s
body. “He was a risk that I removed. I refuse to repent, and I won’t plague myself over
what is done and past.”

Eragon shoved his face into Murtagh’s. “It was still the wrong thing to do.” He lashed
Arya to Saphira, then climbed onto Snowfire. “Let’s go.” Murtagh guided Tornac around
Torkenbrand’s prone form in the bloodstained dust.

They rode at a rate that Eragon would have thought impossible a week ago; leagues
melted away before them as if wings were attached to their feet. They turned south,
between two outstretched arms of the Beor Mountains. The arms were shaped like
pincers about to close, the tips a day’s travel apart. Yet the distance seemed less because
of the mountains’ size. It was as if they were in a valley made for giants.

When they stopped for the day, Eragon and Murtagh ate dinner in silence, refusing to
look up from their food. Afterward, Eragon said tersely, “I’ll take the first watch.”
Murtagh nodded and lay on his blankets with his back to Eragon.

Do you want to talk?asked Saphira.

Not right now,murmured Eragon.Give me some time to think; I’m . . . confused.


She withdrew from his mind with a gentle touch and a whisper.I love you, little one.

And I you,he said. She curled into a ball next to him, lending him her warmth. He sat
motionless in the dark, wrestling with his disquiet.

FLIGHTTHROUGH
THEVALLEY

In the morning Saphira took off with both Eragon and Arya. Eragon wanted to get away
from Murtagh for a time. He shivered, pulling his clothes tighter. It looked like it might
snow. Saphira ascended lazily on an updraft and asked,What are you thinking?

Eragon contemplated the Beor Mountains, which towered above them even though
Saphira flew far above the ground.That was murder yesterday. I’ve no other word for it.

Saphira banked to the left. It was a hasty deed and ill considered, but Murtagh tried to do
the right thing. The men who buy and sell other humans deserve every misfortune that
befalls them. If we weren’t committed to helping Arya, I would hunt down every slaver
and tear them apart!

Yes,said Eragon miserably,but Torkenbrand was helpless. He couldn’t shield himself or
run. A moment more and he probably would have surrendered. Murtagh didn’t give him
that chance. If Torkenbrand had at least been able to fight, it wouldn’t have been so bad.

Eragon, even if Torkenbrand had fought, the results would have been the same. You know
as well as I do that few can equal you or Murtagh with the blade. Torkenbrand would
have still died, though you seem to think it would have been more just or honorable in a
mismatched duel.

I don’t know what’s right!admitted Eragon, distressed.There aren’t any answers that
make sense.

Sometimes,said Saphira gently,there are no answers. Learn what you can about Murtagh
from this. Then forgive him. And if you can’t forgive, at least forget, for he meant you no
harm, however rash the act was. Your head is still attached, yes?

Frowning, Eragon shifted in the saddle. He shook himself, like a horse trying to rid itself
of a fly, and checked Murtagh’s position over Saphira’s shoulder. A patch of color farther
back along their route caught his attention.

Camped by a streambed they had crossed late yesterday were the Urgals. Eragon’s
heartbeat quickened. How could the Urgals be on foot, yet still gain on them? Saphira
saw the monsters as well and tilted her wings, brought them close to her body, and
slipped into a steep dive, splitting the air.I don’t think they spotted us, she said.


Eragon hoped not. He squinted against the blast of air as she increased the angle of their
dive.Their chieftain must be driving them at a breakneck pace, he said.

Yes—maybe they’ll all die of exhaustion.

When they landed, Murtagh asked curtly, “What now?”

“The Urgals are overtaking us,” said Eragon. He pointed back toward the column’s camp.

“How far do we still have to go?” asked Murtagh, putting his hands against the sky and
measuring the hours until sunset.

“Normally? . . . I would guess another five days. At the speed we’ve been traveling, only
three. But unless we get there tomorrow, the Urgals will probably catch us, and Arya will
certainly die.”

“She might last another day.”

“We can’t count on it,” objected Eragon. “The only way we can get to the Varden in time
is if we don’t stop for anything, least of all sleep. That’s our only chance.”

Murtagh laughed bitterly. “How can you expect to do that? We’ve already gone days
without adequate sleep. Unless Riders are made of different stuff than us mortals, you’re
as tired as I am. We’ve covered a staggering distance, and the horses, in case you haven’t
noticed, are ready to drop. Another day of this might kill us all.”

Eragon shrugged. “So be it. We don’t have a choice.”

Murtagh gazed at the mountains. “I could leave and let you fly ahead with Saphira. . . .
That would force the Urgals to divide their troops and would give you a better chance of
reaching the Varden.”

“It would be suicide,” said Eragon, crossing his arms. “Somehow those Urgals are faster
on foot than we are on horseback. They would run you down like a deer. The only way to
evade them is to find sanctuary with the Varden.” Despite his words, he was unsure if he
wanted Murtagh to stay.I like him, Eragon confessed to himself,but I’m no longer certain
if that’s a good thing.

“I’ll escape later,” said Murtagh abruptly. “When we get to the Varden, I can disappear
down a side valley and find my way to Surda, where I can hide without attracting too
much attention.”

“So you’re staying?”

“Sleep or no sleep, I’ll see you to the Varden,” promised Murtagh.


With newfound determination, they struggled to distance themselves from the Urgals, yet
their pursuers continued to creep nearer. At nightfall the monsters were a third closer than
they had been that morning. As fatigue eroded his and Murtagh’s strength, they slept in
turns on the horses, while whoever was awake led the animals in the right direction.

Eragon relied heavily on Arya’s memories to guide them. Because of the alien nature of
her mind, he sometimes made mistakes as to the route, costing them precious time. They
gradually angled toward the foothills of the eastern arm of mountains, looking for the
valley that would lead them to the Varden. Midnight arrived and passed without any sign
of it.

When the sun returned, they were pleased to see that the Urgals were far behind. “This is
the last day,” said Eragon, yawning widely. “If we’re not reasonably close to the Varden
by noon, I’m going to fly ahead with Arya. You’ll be free to go wherever you want then,
but you’ll have to take Snowfire with you. I won’t be able to come back for him.”

“That might not be necessary; we could still get there in time,” said Murtagh. He rubbed
the pommel of his sword.

Eragon shrugged. “We could.” He went to Arya and put a hand on her forehead. It was
damp and dangerously hot. Her eyes wandered uneasily beneath her eyelids, as if she
suffered a nightmare. Eragon pressed a damp rag to her brow, wishing he could do more.

Late in the morning, after they circumnavigated an especially broad mountain, Eragon
saw a narrow valley tucked against its far side. The valley was so restricted it could easily
be overlooked. The Beartooth River, which Arya had mentioned, flowed out of it and
looped carelessly across the land. He smiled with relief; that was where they needed to
go.

Looking back, Eragon was alarmed to see that the distance between them and the Urgals
had shrunk to little more than a league. He pointed out the valley to Murtagh. “If we can
slip in there without being seen, it might confuse them.”

Murtagh looked skeptical. “It’s worth a try. But they’ve followed us easily enough so
far.”

As they approached the valley, they passed under the knotted branches of the Beor
Mountains’ forest. The trees were tall, with creviced bark that was almost black, dull
needles of the same color, and knobby roots that rose from the soil like bare knees. Cones
littered the ground, each the size of a horse’s head. Sable squirrels chattered from the


treetops, and eyes gleamed from holes in the trunks. Green beards of tangled wolfsbane
hung from the gnarled branches.

The forest gave Eragon an uneasy feeling; the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
There was something hostile in the air, as if the trees resented their intrusion.They are
very old, said Saphira, touching a trunk with her nose.

Yes,said Eragon,but not friendly. The forest grew denser the farther in they traveled. The
lack of space forced Saphira to take off with Arya. Without a clear trail to follow, the
tough underbrush slowed Eragon and Murtagh. The Beartooth River wound next to them,
filling the air with the sound of gurgling water. A nearby peak obscured the sun, casting
them into premature dusk.

At the valley’s mouth, Eragon realized that although it looked like a slim gash between
the peaks, the valley was really as wide as many of the Spine’s vales. It was only the
enormous size of the ridged and shadowy mountains that made it appear so confined.
Waterfalls dotted its sheer sides. The sky was reduced to a thin strip winding overhead,
mostly hidden by gray clouds. From the dank ground rose a clinging fog that chilled the
air until their breath was visible. Wild strawberries crawled among a carpet of mosses
and ferns, fighting for the meager sunlight. Sprouting on piles of rotting wood were red
and yellow toadstools.

All was hushed and quiet, sounds dampened by the heavy air. Saphira landed by them in
a nearby glade, the rush of her wings strangely muted. She took in the view with a swing
of her head.I just passed a flock of birds that were black and green with red markings on
their wings. I’ve never seen birds like that before.

Everything in these mountains seems unusual,replied Eragon.Do you mind if I ride you
awhile? I want to keep an eye on the Urgals.

Of course.

He turned to Murtagh. “The Varden are hidden at the end of this valley. If we hurry, we
might get there before nightfall.”

Murtagh grunted, hands on his hips. “How am I going to get out of here? I don’t see any
valleys joining this one, and the Urgals are going to hem us in pretty soon. I need an
escape route.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Eragon impatiently. “This is a long valley; there’s sure to be
an exit further in.” He released Arya from Saphira and lifted the elf onto Snowfire.
“Watch Arya—I’m going to fly with Saphira. We’ll meet you up ahead.” He scrambled
onto Saphira’s back and strapped himself onto her saddle.

“Be careful,” Murtagh warned, his brow furrowed in thought, then clucked to the horses
and hurried back into the forest.


As Saphira jumped toward the sky, Eragon said,Do you think you could fly up to one of
those peaks? We might be able to spot our destination, as well as a passage for Murtagh.
I don’t want to listen to him griping through the entire valley.

We can try,agreed Saphira,but it will get much colder.

I’m dressed warmly.

Hold on, then!Saphira suddenly swooped straight up, throwing him back in the saddle.
Her wings flapped strongly, driving their weight upward. The valley shrank to a green
line below them. The Beartooth River shimmered like braided silver where light struck it.

They rose to the cloud layer, and icy moisture saturated the air. A formless gray blanket
engulfed them, limiting their vision to an arm’s length. Eragon hoped they would not
collide with anything in the murk. He stuck out a hand experimentally, swinging it
through the air. Water condensed on it and ran down his arm, soaking his sleeve.

A blurred gray mass fluttered past his head, and he glimpsed a dove, its wings pumping
frantically. There was a white band around its leg. Saphira struck at the bird, tongue
lashing out, jaws gaping. The dove squawked as Saphira’s sharp teeth snapped together a
hair’s breadth behind its tail feathers. Then it darted away and disappeared into the haze,
the frenzied thumping of its wings fading to silence.

When they breached the top of the clouds, Saphira’s scales were covered with thousands
of water droplets that reflected tiny rainbows and shimmered with the blue of her scales.
Eragon shook himself, spraying water from his clothes, and shivered. He could no longer
see the ground, only hills of clouds snaking between the mountains.

The trees on the mountains gave way to thick glaciers, blue and white under the sun. The
glare from the snow forced Eragon to close his eyes. He tried to open them after a
minute, but the light dazzled him. Irritated, he stared into the crook of his arm.How can
you stand it? he asked Saphira.

My eyes are stronger than yours,she replied.

It was frigid. The water in Eragon’s hair froze, giving him a shiny helmet. His shirt and
pants were hard shells around his limbs. Saphira’s scales became slick with ice; hoarfrost
laced her wings. They had never flown this high before, yet the mountaintops were still
miles above them.

Saphira’s flapping gradually slowed, and her breathing became labored. Eragon gasped
and panted; there didn’t seem to be enough air. Fighting back panic, he clutched
Saphira’s neck spikes for support.

We . . . have to get out of here,he said. Red dots swam before his eyes.I can’t . . . breathe.
Saphira seemed not to hear him, so he repeated the message, louder this time. Again there


was no response.She can’t hear me, he realized. He swayed, finding it hard to think, then
pounded on her side and shouted, “Take us down!”

The effort made him lightheaded. His vision faded into swirling darkness.

He regained consciousness as they emerged from the bottom of the clouds. His head was
pounding.What happened? he asked, pushing himself upright and looking around with
confusion.

You blacked out,answered Saphira.

He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but stopped when he felt icicles.Yes, I know
that, but why didn’t you answer me?

My brain was confused. Your words didn’t make any sense. When you lost consciousness,
I knew something was wrong and descended. I didn’t have to sink far before I realized
what had occurred.

It’s a good thing you didn’t pass out as well,said Eragon with a nervous laugh. Saphira
only swished her tail. He looked wistfully at where the mountain peaks were now
concealed by clouds.A pity we couldn’t stand upon one of those summits. . . . Well, now
we know: we can only fly out of this valley the way we came in. Why did we run out of
air? How can we have it down here, but not up above?

I don’t know, but I’ll never dare to fly so close to the sun again. We should remember this
experience. The knowledge may be useful if we ever have to fight another Rider.

I hope that never happens,said Eragon.Let’s stay down below for now. I’ve had enough
adventure for one day.

They floated on the gentle air currents, drifting from one mountain to the next, until
Eragon saw that the Urgal column had reached the valley’s mouth.What drives them to
such speed, and how can they bear to sustain it?

Now that we are closer to them,Saphira said,I can see that these Urgals are bigger than
the ones we’ve met before. They would stand chest and shoulders over a tall man. I don’t
know what land they march from, but it must be a fierce place to produce such brutes.

Eragon glared at the ground below—he could not see the detail that she did.If they keep
to this pace, they’ll catch Murtagh before we find the Varden.

Have hope. The forest may hamper their progress. . . . Would it be possible to stop them
with magic?


Eragon shook his head.Stop them . . . no. There are too many. He thought of the thin layer
of mist on the valley floor and grinned.But I might be able to delay them a bit. He closed
his eyes, selected the words he needed, stared at the mist, and then commanded, “Gath un
reisa du rakr!”

There was a disturbance below. From above, it looked as if the ground was flowing
together like a great sluggish river. A leaden band of mist gathered in front of the Urgals
and thickened into an intimidating wall, dark as a thunderhead. The Urgals hesitated
before it, then continued forward like an unstoppable battering ram. The barrier swirled
around them, concealing the lead ranks from view.

The drain on Eragon’s strength was sudden and massive, making his heart flutter like a
dying bird. He gasped, eyes rolling. He struggled to sever the magic’s hold on him—to
plug the breach through which his life streamed. With a savage growl he jerked away
from the magic and broke contact. Tendrils of magic snapped through his mind like
decapitated snakes, then reluctantly retreated from his consciousness, clutching at the
dregs of his strength. The wall of mist dissipated, and the fog sluggishly collapsed across
the ground like a tower of mud sliding apart. The Urgals had not been hindered at all.

Eragon lay limply on Saphira, panting. Only now did he remember Brom saying, “Magic
is affected by distance, just like an arrow or a spear. If you try to lift or move something a
mile away, it’ll take more energy than if you were closer.”I won’t forget that again, he
thought grimly.

You shouldn’t have forgotten in the first place,Saphira inserted pointedly.First the dirt at
Gil’ead and now this. Weren’t you paying attention to anything Brom told you? You’ll
kill yourself if you keep this up.

I paid attention,he insisted, rubbing his chin. It’s just been a while, and I haven’t had an
opportunity to think back on it. I’ve never used magic at a distance, so how could I know
it would be so difficult?

She growled.Next thing I know you’ll be trying to bring corpses back to life. Don’t forget
what Brom said about that, too.

I won’t,he said impatiently. Saphira dipped toward the ground, searching for Murtagh and
the horses. Eragon would have helped her, but he barely had the energy to sit up.

Saphira settled in a small field with a jolt, and Eragon was puzzled to see the horses
stopped and Murtagh kneeling, examining the ground. When Eragon did not dismount,
Murtagh hurried over and inquired, “What’s wrong?” He sounded angry, worried, and
tired at the same time.

“. . . I made a mistake,” said Eragon truthfully. “The Urgals have entered the valley. I
tried to confuse them, but I forgot one of the rules of magic, and it cost me a great deal.”


Scowling, Murtagh jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I just found some wolf tracks,
but the footprints are as wide as both of my hands and an inch deep. There are animals
around here that could be dangerous even to you, Saphira.” He turned to her. “I know you
can’t enter the forest, but could you circle above me and the horses? That should keep
these beasts away. Otherwise there may only be enough left of me to roast in a thimble.”

“Humor, Murtagh?” asked Eragon, a quick smile coming to his face. His muscles
trembled, making it hard for him to concentrate.

“Only on the gallows.” Murtagh rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe that the same Urgals
have been following us the whole time. They would have to be birds to catch up with us.”

“Saphira said they’re larger than any we’ve seen,” remarked Eragon.

Murtagh cursed, clenching the pommel of his sword. “That explains it! Saphira, if you’re
right, then those are Kull, elite of the Urgals. I should have guessed that the chieftain had
been put in charge of them. They don’t ride because horses can’t carry their weight—not
one of them is under eight feet tall—and they can run for days without sleep and still be
ready for battle. It can take five men to kill one. Kull never leave their caves except for
war, so they must expect a great slaughter if they are out in such force.”

“Can we stay ahead of them?”

“Who knows?” said Murtagh. “They’re strong, determined, and large in numbers. It’s
possible that we may have to face them. If that happens, I only hope that the Varden have
men posted nearby who’ll help us. Despite our skill and Saphira, we can’t hold off Kull.”

Eragon swayed. “Could you get me some bread? I need to eat.” Murtagh quickly brought
him part of a loaf. It was old and hard, but Eragon chewed on it gratefully. Murtagh
scanned the valley walls, worry in his eyes. Eragon knew he was searching for a way out.
“There’ll be one farther in.”

“Of course,” said Murtagh with forced optimism, then slapped his thigh. “We must go.”

“How is Arya?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh shrugged. “The fever’s worse. She’s been tossing and turning. What do you
expect? Her strength is failing. You should fly her to the Varden before the poison does
any more damage.”

“I won’t leave you behind,” insisted Eragon, gaining strength with each bite. “Not with
the Urgals so near.”

Murtagh shrugged again. “As you wish. But I’m warning you, she won’t live if you stay
with me.”


“Don’t say that,” insisted Eragon, pushing himself upright in Saphira’s saddle. “Help me
save her. We can still do it. Consider it a life for a life—atonement for Torkenbrand’s
death.”

Murtagh’s face darkened instantly. “It’s not a debt owed. You—” He stopped as a horn
echoed through the dark forest. “I’ll have more to say to you later,” he said shortly,
stomping to the horses. He grabbed their reins and trotted away, shooting an angry glare
at Eragon.

Eragon closed his eyes as Saphira took flight. He wished that he could lie on a soft bed
and forget all their troubles. Saphira,he said at last, cupping his ears to warm them, what
if we did take Arya to the Varden? Once she was safe, we could fly back to Murtagh and
help him out of here.

The Varden wouldn’t let you,said Saphira.For all they know, you might be returning to
inform the Urgals of their hiding place. We aren’t arriving under the best conditions to
gain their trust. They’ll want to know why we’ve brought an entire company of Kull to
their very gates.

We’ll just have to tell them the truth and hope they believe us,said Eragon.

And what will we do if the Kull attack Murtagh?

Fight them, of course! I won’t let him and Arya be captured or killed,said Eragon
indignantly.

There was a touch of sarcasm in her words.How noble. Oh, we would fell many of the
Urgals—you with magic and blade, whilst my weapons would be tooth and claw—but it
would be futile in the end. They are too numerous. . . . We cannot defeat them, only be
defeated.

What, then?he demanded.I’ll not leave Arya or Murtagh to their mercy.

Saphira waved her tail, the tip whistling loudly.I’m not asking you to. However, if we
attack first, we may gain the advantage.

Have you gone crazy? They’ll . . .Eragon’s voice trailed off as he thought about it.They
won’t be able to do a thing, he concluded, surprised.

Exactly,said Saphira.We can inflict lots of damage from a safe height.

Let’s drop rocks on them!proposed Eragon.That should scatter them.

If their skulls aren’t thick enough to protect them.Saphira banked to the right and quickly
descended to the Beartooth River. She grasped a mid-sized boulder with her strong talons
while Eragon scooped up several fist-sized rocks. Laden with the stones, Saphira glided


on silent wings until they were over the Urgal host.Now! she exclaimed, releasing the
boulder. There were muffled cracks as the missiles plummeted through the forest top,
smashing branches. A second later howls echoed through the valley.

Eragon smiled tightly as he heard the Urgals scramble for cover.Let’s find more
ammunition, he suggested, bending low over Saphira. She growled in agreement and
returned to the riverbed.

It was hard work, but they were able to hinder the Urgals’ progress—though it was
impossible to stop them altogether. The Urgals gained ground whenever Saphira went for
stones. Despite that, their efforts allowed Murtagh to stay ahead of the advancing column.

The valley darkened as the hours slipped by. Without the sun to provide warmth, the
sharp bite of frost crept into the air and the ground mist froze on the trees, coating them
white. Night animals began to creep from their dens to peer from shadowed hideouts at
the strangers trespassing on their land.

Eragon continued to examine the mountainsides, searching for the waterfall that would
signify the end of their journey. He was painfully aware that every passing minute
brought Arya closer to death. “Faster, faster,” he muttered to himself, looking down at
Murtagh. Before Saphira scooped up more rocks, he said,Let’s take a respite and check
on Arya. The day is almost over, and I’m afraid her life is measured in hours, if not
minutes.

Arya’s life is in Fate’s hands now. You made your choice to stay with Murtagh; it’s too
late to change that, so stop agonizing over it. . . . You’re making my scales itch. The best
thing we can do right now is to keep bombarding the Urgals.Eragon knew she was right,
yet her words did nothing to calm his anxiety. He resumed his search for the waterfall,
but whatever lay before them was hidden by a thick mountain ridge.

True darkness began to fill the valley, settling over the trees and mountains like an inky
cloud. Even with her keen hearing and delicate sense of smell, Saphira could no longer
locate the Urgals through the dense forest. There was no moon to help them; it would be
hours before it rose above the mountains.

Saphira made a long, gentle left turn and glided around the mountain ridge. Eragon
vaguely sensed it pass by them, then squinted as he saw a faint white line ahead.Could
that be the waterfall? he wondered.

He looked at the sky, which still held the afterglow of sunset. The mountains’ dark
silhouettes curved together and formed a rough bowl that closed off the valley.The head
of the valley isn’t much farther! he exclaimed, pointing at the mountains.Do you think
that the Varden know we’re coming? Maybe they’ll send men out to help us.


I doubt they’ll assist us until they know if we are friend or foe,Saphira said as she
abruptly dropped toward the ground.I’m returning to Murtagh—we should stay with him
now. Since I can’t find the Urgals, they could sneak up on him without us knowing.

Eragon loosened Zar’roc in its sheath, wondering if he was strong enough to fight.
Saphira landed to the left of the Beartooth River, then crouched expectantly. The
waterfall rumbled in the distance.He comes, she said. Eragon strained his ears and caught
the sound of pounding hooves. Murtagh ran out of the forest, driving the horses before
him. He saw them but did not slow.

Eragon jumped off Saphira, stumbling a bit as he matched Murtagh’s pace. Behind him
Saphira went to the river so she could follow them without being hindered by the trees.
Before Eragon could relay his news, Murtagh said, “I saw you dropping rocks with
Saphira—ambitious. Have the Kull stopped or turned back?”

“They’re still behind us, but we’re almost to the head of the valley. How’s Arya?”

“She hasn’t died,” Murtagh said harshly. His breath came in short bursts. His next words
were deceptively calm, like those of a man concealing a terrible passion. “Is there a
valley or gorge ahead that I can leave through?”

Apprehensive, Eragon tried to remember if he had seen any breaks in the mountains
around them; he had not thought about Murtagh’s dilemma for a while. “It’s dark,” he
began evasively, dodging a low branch, “so I might have missed something, but . . . no.”

Murtagh swore explosively and came to an abrupt stop, dragging on the horses’ reins
until they halted as well. “Are you saying that the only place I can go is to the Varden?”

“Yes, but keep running. The Urgals are almost upon us!”

“No!” said Murtagh angrily. He stabbed a finger at Eragon. “I warned you that I wouldn’t
go to the Varden, but you went ahead and trapped me between a hammer and an anvil!
You’re the one with the elf’s memories. Why didn’t you tell me this was a dead end?”

Eragon bristled at the barrage and retorted, “All I knew was where we had to go, not what
lay in between. Don’t blame me for choosing to come.”

Murtagh’s breath hissed between his teeth as he furiously spun away. All Eragon could
see of him was a motionless, bowed figure. His own shoulders were tense, and a vein
throbbed on the side of his neck. He put his hands on his hips, impatience rising.

Why have you stopped?asked Saphira, alarmed.

Don’t distract me.“What’s your quarrel with the Varden? It can’t be so terrible that you
must keep it hidden even now. Would you rather fight the Kull than reveal it? How many
times will we go through this before you trust me?”


There was a long silence.
The Urgals!reminded Saphira urgently.
I know,said Eragon, pushing back his temper.But we have to resolve this.
Quickly, quickly.


“Murtagh,” said Eragon earnestly, “unless you wish to die, we must go to the Varden.
Don’t let me walk into their arms without knowing how they will react to you. It’s going
to be dangerous enough without unnecessary surprises.”

Finally Murtagh turned to Eragon. His breathing was hard and fast, like that of a cornered
wolf. He paused, then said with a tortured voice, “You have a right to know. I . . . I am
the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn.”

THEHORNS OF
ADILEMMA

Eragon was speechless. Disbelief roared through his mind as he tried to reject
Murtagh’s words.The Forsworn never had any children, least of all Morzan. Morzan!
The man who betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix and remained the king’s favorite servant
for the rest of his life. Could it be true?


Saphira’s own shock reached him a second later. She crashed through trees and brush as
she barreled from the river to his side, fangs bared, tail raised threateningly.Be ready for
anything, she warned.He may be able to use magic.

“You are his heir?” asked Eragon, surreptitiously reaching for Zar’roc.What could he
want with me? Is he really working for the king?

“I didn’t choose this!” cried Murtagh, anguish twisting his face. He ripped at his clothes
with a desperate air, tearing off his tunic and shirt to bare his torso. “Look!” he pleaded,
and turned his back to Eragon.

Unsure, Eragon leaned forward, straining his eyes in the darkness. There, against
Murtagh’s tanned and muscled skin, was a knotted white scar that stretched from his right
shoulder to his left hip—a testament to some terrible agony.

“See that?” demanded Murtagh bitterly. He talked quickly now, as if relieved to have his
secret finally revealed. “I was only three when I got it. During one of his many drunken
rages, Morzan threw his sword at me as I ran by. My back was laid open by the very
sword you now carry—the only thing I expected to receive as inheritance, until Brom
stole it from my father’s corpse. I was lucky, I suppose—there was a healer nearby who


kept me from dying. You must understand, I don’t love the Empire or the king. I have no
allegiance to them, nor do I mean you harm!” His pleas were almost frantic.

Eragon uneasily lifted his hand from Zar’roc’s pommel. “Then your father,” he said in a
faltering voice, “was killed by . . .”

“Yes, Brom,” said Murtagh. He pulled his tunic back on with a detached air.

A horn rang out behind them, prompting Eragon to cry, “Come, run with me.” Murtagh
shook the horses’ reins and forced them into a tired trot, eyes fixed straight ahead, while
Arya bounced limply in Snowfire’s saddle. Saphira stayed by Eragon’s side, easily
keeping pace with her long legs.You could walk unhindered in the riverbed, he said as
she was forced to smash through a dense web of branches.

I’ll not leave you with him.

Eragon was glad for her protection.Morzan’s son! He said between strides, “Your tale is
hard to believe. How do I know you aren’t lying?”
“Why would I lie?”
“You could be—”
Murtagh interrupted him quickly. “I can’t prove anything to you now. Keep your doubts


until we reach the Varden. They’ll recognize me quickly enough.”
“I must know,” pressed Eragon. “Do you serve the Empire?”
“No. And if I did, what would I accomplish by traveling with you? If I were trying to


capture or kill you, I would have left you in prison.” Murtagh stumbled as he jumped
over a fallen log.


“You could be leading the Urgals to the Varden.”
“Then,” said Murtagh shortly, “why am I still with you? I know where the Varden are
now. What reason could I have for delivering myself to them? If I were going to attack
them, I’d turn around and join the Urgals.”


“Maybe you’re an assassin,” stated Eragon flatly.
“Maybe. You can’t really know, can you?”
Saphira?Eragon asked simply.
Her tail swished over his head.If he wanted to harm you, he could have done it long ago.



A branch whipped Eragon’s neck, causing a line of blood to appear on his skin. The
waterfall was growing louder.I want you to watch Murtagh closely when we get to the
Varden. He may do something foolish, and I don’t want him killed by accident.

I’ll do my best,she said as she shouldered her way between two trees, scraping off slabs
of bark. The horn sounded behind them again. Eragon glanced over his shoulder,
expecting Urgals to rush out of the darkness. The waterfall throbbed dully ahead of them,
drowning out the sounds of the night.

The forest ended, and Murtagh pulled the horses to a stop. They were on a pebble beach
directly to the left of the mouth of the Beartooth River. The deep lake Kóstha-mérna
filled the valley, blocking their way. The water gleamed with flickering starlight. The
mountain walls restricted passage around Kóstha-mérna to a thin strip of shore on either
side of the lake, both no more than a few steps wide. At the lake’s far end, a broad sheet
of water tumbled down a black cliff into boiling mounds of froth.

“Do we go to the falls?” asked Murtagh tightly.

“Yes.” Eragon took the lead and picked his way along the lake’s left side. The pebbles
underfoot were damp and slime covered. There was barely enough room for Saphira
between the sheer valley wall and the lake; she had to walk with two feet in the water.

They were halfway to the waterfall when Murtagh warned, “Urgals!”

Eragon whirled around, rocks spraying from under his heel. By the shore of Kósthamérna,
where they had been only minutes before, hulking figures streamed out of the
forest. The Urgals massed before the lake. One of them gestured at Saphira; guttural
words drifted over the water. Immediately the horde split and started around both sides of
the lake, leaving Eragon and Murtagh without an escape route. The narrow shore forced
the bulky Kull to march single file.

“Run!” barked Murtagh, drawing his sword and slapping the horses on their flanks.
Saphira took off without warning and wheeled back toward the Urgals.

“No!” cried Eragon, shouting with his mind,Come back! but she continued, heedless to
his pleas. With an agonizing effort, he tore his gaze from her and plunged forward,
wrenching Zar’roc from its sheath.

Saphira dived at the Urgals, bellowing fiercely. They tried to scatter but were trapped
against the mountainside. She caught a Kull between her talons and carried the screaming
creature aloft, tearing at him with her fangs. The silent body crashed into the lake a
moment later, an arm and a leg missing.

The Kull continued around Kóstha-mérna undeterred. With smoke streaming from her
nostrils, Saphira dived at them again. She twisted and rolled as a cloud of black arrows


shot toward her. Most of the darts glanced off her scaled sides, leaving no more than
bruises, but she roared as the rest pierced her wings.

Eragon’s arms twinged with sympathetic pain, and he had to restrain himself from
rushing to her defense. Fear flooded his veins as he saw the line of Urgals closing in on
them. He tried to run faster, but his muscles were too tired, the rocks too slippery.

Then, with a loud splash, Saphira plunged into Kóstha-mérna. She submerged
completely, sending ripples across the lake. The Urgals nervously eyed the dark water
lapping their feet. One growled something indecipherable and jabbed his spear at the
lake.

The water exploded as Saphira’s head shot out of the depths. Her jaws closed on the
spear, breaking it like a twig as she tore it out of the Kull’s hands with a vicious twist.
Before she could seize the Urgal himself, his companions thrust at her with their spears,
bloodying her nose.

Saphira jerked back and hissed angrily, beating the water with her tail. Keeping his spear
pointed at her, the lead Kull tried to edge past, but halted when she snapped at his legs.
The string of Urgals was forced to stop as she held him at bay. Meanwhile, the Kull on
the other side of the lake still hurried toward the falls.

I’ve trapped them,she told Eragon tersely,but hurry—I cannot hold them long. Archers on
the shore were already taking aim at her. Eragon concentrated on going faster, but a rock
gave under his boot and he pitched forward. Murtagh’s strong arm kept him on his feet,
and clasping each other’s forearms, they urged the horses forward with shouts.

They were almost to the waterfall. The noise was overwhelming, like an avalanche. A
white wall of water gushed down the cliff, pounding the rocks below with a fury that sent
mist spraying through the air to run down their faces. Four yards from the thunderous
curtain, the beach widened, giving them room to maneuver.

Saphira roared as an Urgal spear grazed her haunch, then retreated underwater. With her
withdrawal the Kull rushed forward with long strides. They were only a few hundred feet
away. “What do we do now?” Murtagh demanded coldly.

“I don’t know. Let me think!” cried Eragon, searching Arya’s memories for her final
instructions. He scanned the ground until he found a rock the size of an apple, grabbed it,
then pounded on the cliff next to the falls, shouting, “Aí varden abr du Shur’tugals gata
vanta!”

Nothing happened.

He tried again, shouting louder than before, but only succeeded in bruising his hand. He
turned in despair to Murtagh. “We’re trap—” His words were cut off as Saphira leapt out


of the lake, dousing them with icy water. She landed on the beach and crouched, ready to
fight.

The horses backpedaled wildly, trying to bolt. Eragon reached out with his mind to steady
them.Behind you! cried Saphira. He turned and glimpsed the lead Urgal running at him,
heavy spear raised. Up close a Kull was as tall as a small giant, with legs and arms as
thick as tree trunks.

Murtagh drew back his arm and threw his sword with incredible speed. The long weapon
revolved once, then struck the Kull point first in the chest with a dull crunch. The huge
Urgal toppled to the ground with a strangled gurgle. Before another Kull could attack,
Murtagh dashed forward and yanked his sword out of the body.

Eragon raised his palm, shouting, “Jierda theirra kalfis!” Sharp cracks resounded off the
cliff. Twenty of the charging Urgals fell into Kóstha-mérna, howling and clutching their
legs where shards of bone protruded. Without breaking stride, the rest of the Urgals
advanced over their fallen companions. Eragon struggled against his weariness, putting a
hand on Saphira for support.

A flight of arrows, impossible to see in the darkness, brushed past them and clattered
against the cliff. Eragon and Murtagh ducked, covering their heads. With a small growl,
Saphira jumped over them so that her armored sides shielded them and the horses. A
chorus of clinks sounded as a second volley of arrows bounced off her scales.

“What now?” shouted Murtagh. There was still no opening in the cliff. “We can’t stay
here!”

Eragon heard Saphira snarl as an arrow caught the edge of her wing, tearing the thin
membrane. He looked around wildly, trying to understand why Arya’s instructions had
not worked. “I don’t know! This is where we’re supposed to be!”

“Why don’t you ask the elf to make sure?” demanded Murtagh. He dropped his sword,
snatched his bow from Tornac’s saddlebags, and with a swift motion loosed an arrow
from between the spikes on Saphira’s back. A moment later an Urgal toppled into the
water.

“Now? She’s barely alive! How’s she going to find the energy to say anything?”

“I don’tknow, ” shouted Murtagh, “but you’d better think ofsomething because we can’t
stave off an entire army!”

Eragon,growled Saphira urgently.

What!


We’re on the wrong side of the lake! I’ve seen Arya’s memories through you, and I just
realized that this isn’t the right place.She tucked her head against her breast as another
flight of arrows sped toward them. Her tail flicked in pain as they struck her.I can’t keep
this up! They’re tearing me to pieces!

Eragon slammed Zar’roc back into its sheath and exclaimed, “The Varden are on the
other side of the lake. We have to go through the waterfall!” He noted with dread that the
Urgals across Kóstha-mérna were almost to the falls.

Murtagh’s eyes shot toward the violent deluge blocking their way. “We’ll never get the
horses through there, even if we can hold our own footing.”

“I’ll convince them to follow us,” snapped Eragon. “And Saphira can carry Arya.” The
Urgals’ cries and bellows made Snowfire snort angrily. The elf lolled on his back,
oblivious to the danger.

Murtagh shrugged. “It’s better than being hacked to death.” He swiftly cut Arya loose
from Snowfire’s saddle, and Eragon caught the elf as she slid to the ground.

I’m ready,said Saphira, rising into a half-crouch. The approaching Urgals hesitated,
unsure of her intentions.

“Now!” cried Eragon. He and Murtagh heaved Arya onto Saphira, then secured her legs
in the saddle’s straps. The second they were finished, Saphira swept up her wings and
soared over the lake. The Urgals behind her howled as they saw her escaping. Arrows
clattered off her belly. The Kull on the other shore redoubled their pace so as to attain the
waterfall before she landed.

Eragon reached out with his mind to force himself into the frightened thoughts of the
horses. Using the ancient language, he told them that unless they swam through the
waterfall, they would be killed and eaten by the Urgals. Though they did not understand
everything he said, the meaning of his words was unmistakable.

Snowfire and Tornac tossed their heads, then dashed into the thundering downpour,
whinnying as it struck their backs. They floundered, struggling to stay above water.
Murtagh sheathed his sword and jumped after them; his head disappeared under a froth of
bubbles before he bobbed up, sputtering.

The Urgals were right behind Eragon; he could hear their feet crunching on the gravel.
With a fierce war cry he leapt after Murtagh, closing his eyes a second before the cold
water pummeled him.

The tremendous weight of the waterfall slammed down on his shoulders with
backbreaking force. The water’s mindless roar filled his ears. He was driven to the
bottom, where his knees gouged the rocky lakebed. He kicked off with all his strength


and shot partway out of the water. Before he could take a gulp of air, the cascade rammed
him back underwater.

All he could see was a white blur as foam billowed around him. He frantically tried to
surface and relieve his burning lungs, but he only rose a few feet before the deluge halted
his ascent. He panicked, thrashing his arms and legs, fighting the water. Weighed down
by Zar’roc and his drenched clothes, he sank back to the lakebed, unable to speak the
ancient words that could save him.

Suddenly a strong hand grasped the back of his tunic and dragged him through the water.
His rescuer sliced through the lake with quick, short strokes; Eragon hoped it was
Murtagh, not an Urgal. They surfaced and stumbled onto the pebble beach. Eragon was
trembling violently; his entire body shivered in bursts.

Sounds of combat erupted to his right, and he whirled toward them, expecting an Urgal
attack. The monsters on the opposite shore—where he had stood only moments before—
fell beneath a withering hail of arrows from crevasses that pockmarked the cliff. Scores
of Urgals already floated belly up in the water, riddled with shafts. The ones on Eragon’s
shore were similarly engaged. Neither group could retreat from their exposed positions,
for rows of warriors had somehow appeared behind them, where the lake met the
mountainsides. All that prevented the nearest Kull from rushing Eragon was the steady
rain of arrows—the unseen archers seemed determined to keep the Urgals at bay.

A gruff voice next to Eragon said, “Akh Guntéraz dorzâda! What were they thinking?
You would have drowned!” Eragon jerked with surprise. It was not Murtagh standing by
him but a diminutive man no taller than his elbow.

The dwarf was busy wringing water out of his long braided beard. His chest was stocky,
and he wore a chain-mail jacket cut off at the shoulders to reveal muscular arms. A war
ax hung from a wide leather belt strapped around his waist. An iron-bound oxhide cap,
bearing the symbol of a hammer surrounded by twelve stars, sat firmly on his head. Even
with the cap, he barely topped four feet. He looked longingly at the fighting and said,
“Barzul, but I wish I could join them!”

A dwarf!Eragon drew Zar’roc and looked for Saphira and Murtagh. Two twelve-footthick
stone doors had opened in the cliff, revealing a broad tunnel nearly thirty feet tall
that burrowed its way into the mysterious depths of the mountain. A line of flameless
lamps filled the passageway with a pale sapphire light that spilled out onto the lake.

Saphira and Murtagh stood before the tunnel, surrounded by a grim mixture of men and
dwarves. At Murtagh’s elbow was a bald, beardless man dressed in purple and gold
robes. He was taller than all the other humans—and he was holding a dagger to
Murtagh’s throat.

Eragon reached for his power, but the robed man said in a sharp, dangerous voice, “Stop!
If you use magic, I’ll kill your lovely friend here, who was so kind as to mention you’re a


Rider. Don’t think I won’t know if you’re drawing upon it. You can’t hide anything from
me.” Eragon tried to speak, but the man snarled and pressed the dagger harder against
Murtagh’s throat. “None of that! If you say or do anything I don’t tell you to, he will die.
Now, everyone inside.” He backed into the tunnel, pulling Murtagh with him and keeping
his eyes on Eragon.

Saphira, what should I do?Eragon asked quickly as the men and dwarves followed
Murtagh’s captor, leading the horses along with them.

Go with them,she counseled,and hope that we live. She entered the tunnel herself,
eliciting nervous glances from those around her. Reluctantly, Eragon followed her, aware
that the warriors’ eyes were upon him. His rescuer, the dwarf, walked alongside him with
a hand on the haft of his war ax.

Utterly exhausted, Eragon staggered into the mountain. The stone doors swung shut
behind them with only a whisper of sound. He looked back and saw a seamless wall
where the opening had been. They were trapped inside. But were they any safer?

HUNTING FORANSWERS

“This way,” snapped the bald man. He stepped back, keeping the dagger pressed under
Murtagh’s chin, then wheeled to the right, disappearing through an arched doorway. The
warriors cautiously followed him, their attention centered on Eragon and Saphira. The
horses were led into a different tunnel.

Dazed by the turn of events, Eragon started after Murtagh. He glanced at Saphira to
confirm that Arya was still tied to her back.She has to get the antidote! he thought
frantically, knowing that even then the Skilna Bragh was fulfilling its deadly purpose
within her flesh.

He hurried through the arched doorway and down a narrow corridor after the bald man.
The warriors kept their weapons pointed at him. They swept past a sculpture of a peculiar
animal with thick quills. The corridor curved sharply to the left, then to the right. A door
opened and they entered a bare room large enough for Saphira to move around with ease.
There was a hollow boom as the door closed, followed by a loud scrape as a bolt was
secured on the outside.

Eragon slowly examined his surroundings, Zar’roc tight in his hand. The walls, floor, and
ceiling were made of polished white marble that reflected a ghost image of everyone, like
a mirror of veined milk. One of the unusual lanterns hung in each corner. “There’s an
injured—” he began, but a sharp gesture from the bald man cut him off.

“Do not speak! It must wait until you have been tested.” He shoved Murtagh over to one
of the warriors, who pressed a sword against Murtagh’s neck. The bald man clasped his


hands together softly. “Remove your weapons and slide them to me.” A dwarf unbuckled
Murtagh’s sword and dropped it on the floor with a clank.

Loath to be parted with Zar’roc, Eragon unfastened the sheath and set it and the blade on
the floor. He placed his bow and quiver next to them, then pushed the pile toward the
warriors. “Now step away from your dragon and slowly approach me,” commanded the
bald man.

Puzzled, Eragon moved forward. When they were a yard apart, the man said, “Stop there!
Now remove the defenses from around your mind and prepare to let me inspect your
thoughts and memories. If you try to hide anything from me, I will take what I want by
force . . . which would drive you mad. If you don’t submit, your companion will be
killed.”

“Why?” asked Eragon, aghast.

“To be sure you aren’t in Galbatorix’s service and to understand why hundreds of Urgals
are banging on our front door,” growled the bald man. His close-set eyes shifted from
point to point with cunning speed. “No one may enter Farthen Dûr without being tested.”

“There isn’t time. We need a healer!” protested Eragon.

“Silence!” roared the man, pressing down his robe with thin fingers. “Until you are
examined, your words are meaningless!”

“But she’s dying!” retorted Eragon angrily, pointing at Arya. They were in a precarious
position, but he would let nothing else happen until Arya was cared for.

“It will have to wait! No one will leave this room until we have discovered the truth of
this matter. Unless you wish—”

The dwarf who had saved Eragon from the lake jumped forward. “Are you blind, Egraz
Carn? Can’t you see that’s an elf on the dragon? We cannot keep her here if she’s in
danger. Ajihad and the king will have our heads if she’s allowed to die!”

The man’s eyes tightened with anger. After a moment he relaxed and said smoothly, “Of
course, Orik, we wouldn’t want that to happen.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at
Arya. “Remove her from the dragon.” Two human warriors sheathed their swords and
hesitantly approached Saphira, who watched them steadily. “Quickly, quickly!”

The men unstrapped Arya from the saddle and lowered the elf to the floor. One of the
men inspected her face, then said sharply, “It’s the dragon-egg courier, Arya!”

“What?” exclaimed the bald man. The dwarf Orik’s eyes widened with astonishment. The
bald man fixed his steely gaze on Eragon and said flatly, “You have much explaining to
do.”


Eragon returned the intense stare with all the determination he could muster. “She was
poisoned with the Skilna Bragh while in prison. Only Túnivor’s Nectar can save her
now.”

The bald man’s face became inscrutable. He stood motionless, except for his lips, which
twitched occasionally. “Very well. Take her to the healers, and tell them what she needs.
Guard her until the ceremony is completed. I will have new orders for you by then.” The
warriors nodded curtly and carried Arya out of the room. Eragon watched them go,
wishing that he could accompany her. His attention snapped back to the bald man as he
said, “Enough of this, we have wasted too much time already. Prepare to be examined.”

Eragon did not want this hairless threatening man inside his mind, laying bare his every
thought and feeling, but he knew that resistance would be useless. The air was strained.
Murtagh’s gaze burned into his forehead. Finally he bowed his head. “I am ready.”

“Good, then—”

He was interrupted as Orik said abruptly, “You’d better not harm him, Egraz Carn, else
the king will have words for you.”

The bald man looked at him irritably, then faced Eragon with a small smile. “Only if he
resists.” He bowed his head and chanted several inaudible words.

Eragon gasped with pain and shock as a mental probe clawed its way into his mind. His
eyes rolled up into his head, and he automatically began throwing up barriers around his
consciousness. The attack was incredibly powerful.

Don’t do that!cried Saphira. Her thoughts joined his, filling him with strength.You’re
putting Murtagh at risk! Eragon faltered, gritted his teeth, then forced himself to remove
his shielding, exposing himself to the ravening probe. Disappointment emanated from the
bald man. His battering intensified. The force coming from his mind felt decayed and
unwholesome; there was something profoundly wrong about it.

He wants me to fight him!cried Eragon as a fresh wave of pain racked him. A second later
it subsided, only to be replaced by another. Saphira did her best to suppress it, but even
she could not block it entirely.

Give him what he wants,she said quickly,but protect everything else. I’ll help you. His
strength is no match for mine; I’m already shielding our words from him.

Then why does it still hurt?

The pain comes from you.

Eragon winced as the probe dug in farther, hunting for information, like a nail being
driven through his skull. The bald man roughly seized his childhood memories and began


sifting through them.He doesn’t need those—get him out of there! growled Eragon
angrily.

I can’t, not without endangering you,said Saphira.I can conceal things from his view, but
it must be done before he reaches them. Think quickly, and tell me what you want hidden!

Eragon tried to concentrate through the pain. He raced through his memories, starting
from when he had found Saphira’s egg. He hid sections of his discussions with Brom,
including all the ancient words he had been taught. Their travels through Palancar Valley,
Yazuac, Daret, and Teirm he left mostly untouched. But he had Saphira conceal
everything he remembered of Angela’s fortunetelling and Solembum. He skipped from
their burglary at Teirm, to Brom’s death, to his imprisonment in Gil’ead, and lastly to
Murtagh’s revelation of his true identity.

Eragon wanted to hide that as well, but Saphira balked.The Varden have a right to know
who they shelter under their roof, especially if it’s a son of the Forsworn!

Just do it,he said tightly, fighting another wave of agony.I won’t be the one to unmask
him, at least not to this man.

It’ll be discovered as soon as Murtagh is scanned,warned Saphira sharply.

Just do it.

With the most important information hidden, there was nothing else for Eragon to do but
wait for the bald man to finish his inspection. It was like sitting still while his fingernails
were extracted with rusty tongs. His entire body was rigid, jaw locked tightly. Heat
radiated from his skin, and a line of sweat rolled down his neck. He was acutely aware of
each second as the long minutes crept by.

The bald man wound through his experiences sluggishly, like a thorny vine pushing its
way toward the sunlight. He paid keen attention to many things Eragon considered
irrelevant, such as his mother, Selena, and seemed to linger on purpose so as to prolong
the suffering. He spent a long time examining Eragon’s recollections of the Ra’zac, and
then later the Shade. It was not until his adventures had been exhaustively analyzed that
the bald man began to withdraw from Eragon’s mind.

The probe was extracted like a splinter being removed. Eragon shuddered, swayed, then
fell toward the floor. Strong arms caught him at the last second, lowering him to the cool
marble. He heard Orik exclaim from behind him, “You went too far! He wasn’t strong
enough for this.”

“He’ll live. That’s all that is needed,” answered the bald man curtly.

There was an angry grunt. “What did you find?”


Silence.

“Well, is he to be trusted or not?”

The words came reluctantly. “He . . . is not your enemy.” There were audible sighs of
relief throughout the room.

Eragon’s eyes fluttered open. He gingerly pushed himself upright. “Easy now,” said Orik,
wrapping a thick arm around him and helping him to his feet. Eragon wove unsteadily,
glaring at the bald man. A low growl rumbled in Saphira’s throat.

The bald man ignored them. He turned to Murtagh, who was still being held at sword
point. “It’s your turn now.”

Murtagh stiffened and shook his head. The sword cut his neck slightly. Blood dripped
down his skin. “No.”

“You will not be protected here if you refuse.”

“Eragon has been declared trustworthy, so you cannot threaten to kill him to influence
me. Since you can’t do that, nothing you say or do will convince me to open my mind.”

Sneering, the bald man cocked what would have been an eyebrow, if he had any. “What
of your own life? I can still threaten that.”

“It won’t do any good,” said Murtagh stonily and with such conviction that it was
impossible to doubt his word.

The bald man’s breath exploded angrily. “You don’t have a choice!” He stepped forward
and placed his palm on Murtagh’s brow, clenching his hand to hold him in place.
Murtagh stiffened, face growing as hard as iron, fists clenched, neck muscles bulging. He
was obviously fighting the attack with all his strength. The bald man bared his teeth with
fury and frustration at the resistance; his fingers dug mercilessly into Murtagh.

Eragon winced in sympathy, knowing the battle that raged between them.Can’t you help
him? he asked Saphira.

No,she said softly.He will allow no one into his mind.

Orik scowled darkly as he watched the combatants. “Ilf carnz orodüm,” he muttered, then
leapt forward and cried, “That is enough!” He grabbed the bald man’s arm and tore him
away from Murtagh with strength disproportional to his size.

The bald man stumbled back, then turned on Orik furiously. “How dare you!” he shouted.
“You questioned my leadership, opened the gates without permission, and now this!


You’ve shown nothing but insolence and treachery. Do you think your king will protect
you now?”

Orik bristled. “You would have let them die! If I had waited any longer, the Urgals would
have killed them.” He pointed at Murtagh, whose breath came in great heaves. “We don’t
have any right to torture him for information! Ajihad won’t sanction it. Not after you’ve
examined the Rider and found him free of fault.And they’ve brought us Arya.”

“Would you allow him to enter unchallenged? Are you so great a fool as to put us all at
risk?” demanded the bald man. His eyes were feral with loosely chained rage; he looked
ready to tear the dwarf into pieces.

“Can he use magic?”

“That is—”

“Can he use magic?” roared Orik, his deep voice echoing in the room. The bald man’s
face suddenly grew expressionless. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“No.”

“Then what do you fear? It’s impossible for him to escape, and he can’t work any devilry
with all of us here, especially if your powers are as great as you say. But don’t listen to
me; ask Ajihad what he wants done.”

The bald man stared at Orik for a moment, his face indecipherable, then looked at the
ceiling and closed his eyes. A peculiar stiffness set into his shoulders while his lips
moved soundlessly. An intense frown wrinkled the pale skin above his eyes, and his
fingers clenched, as if they were throttling an invisible enemy. For several minutes he
stood thus, wrapped in silent communication.

When his eyes opened, he ignored Orik and snapped at the warriors, “Leave, now!” As
they filed through the doorway, he addressed Eragon coldly, “Because I was unable to
complete my examination, you and . . . your friend will remain here for the night. He will
be killed if he attempts to leave.” With those words he turned on his heel and stalked out
of the room, pale scalp gleaming in the lantern light.

“Thank you,” whispered Eragon to Orik.

The dwarf grunted. “I’ll make sure some food is brought.” He muttered a string of words
under his breath, then left, shaking his head. The bolt was secured once again on the
outside of the door.

Eragon sat, feeling strangely dreamy from the day’s excitement and their forced march.
His eyelids were heavy. Saphira settled next to him.We must be careful. It seems we have
as many enemies here as we did in the Empire. He nodded, too tired to talk.


Murtagh, eyes glazed and empty, leaned against the far wall and slid to the shiny floor.
He held his sleeve against the cut on his neck to stop the bleeding. “Are you all right?”
asked Eragon. Murtagh nodded jerkily. “Did he get anything from you?”

“No.”
“How were you able to keep him out? He’s so strong.”
“I’ve . . . I’ve been well trained.” There was a bitter note to his voice.
Silence enshrouded them. Eragon’s gaze drifted to one of the lanterns hanging in a


corner. His thoughts meandered until he abruptly said, “I didn’t let them know who you
are.”
Murtagh looked relieved. He bowed his head. “Thank you for not betraying me.”
“They didn’t recognize you.”
“No.”
“And you still say that you are Morzan’s son?”


“Yes,” he sighed.
Eragon started to speak, but stopped when he felt hot liquid splash onto his hand. He
looked down and was startled to see a drop of dark blood roll off his skin. It had fallen
from Saphira’s wing.I forgot. You’re injured! he exclaimed, getting up with an effort.I’d
better heal you.

Be careful. It’s easy to make mistakes when you’re this tired.
I know.Saphira unfolded one of her wings and lowered it to the floor. Murtagh watched
as Eragon ran his hands over the warm blue membrane, saying, “Waíse heill,” whenever


he found an arrow hole. Luckily, all the wounds were relatively easy to heal, even those
on her nose.
Task completed, Eragon slumped against Saphira, breathing hard. He could feel her great


heart beating with the steady throb of life. “I hope they bring food soon,” said Murtagh.


Eragon shrugged; he was too exhausted to be hungry. He crossed his arms, missing
Zar’roc’s weight by his side. “Why are you here?”
“What?”
“If you really are Morzan’s son, Galbatorix wouldn’t let you wander around Alagaësia


freely. How is it that you managed to find the Ra’zac by yourself? Why is it I’ve never



heard of any of the Forsworn having children? And what are you doing here?” His voice
rose to a near shout at the end.

Murtagh ran his hands over his face. “It’s a long story.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” rebutted Eragon.

“It’s too late to talk.”

“There probably won’t be time for it tomorrow.”

Murtagh wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, rocking back
and forth as he stared at the floor. “It’s not a—” he said, then interrupted himself. “I don’t
want to stop . . . so make yourself comfortable. My story will take a while.” Eragon
shifted against Saphira’s side and nodded. Saphira watched both of them intently.

Murtagh’s first sentence was halting, but his voice gained strength and confidence as he
spoke. “As far as I know . . . I am the only child of the Thirteen Servants, or the Forsworn
as they’re called. There may be others, for the Thirteen had the skill to hide whatever
they wanted, but I doubt it, for reasons I’ll explain later.

“My parents met in a small village—I never learned where—while my father was
traveling on the king’s business. Morzan showed my mother some small kindness, no
doubt a ploy to gain her confidence, and when he left, she accompanied him. They
traveled together for a time, and as is the nature of these things, she fell deeply in love
with him. Morzan was delighted to discover this not only because it gave him numerous
opportunities to torment her but also because he recognized the advantage of having a
servant who wouldn’t betray him.

“Thus, when Morzan returned to Galbatorix’s court, my mother became the tool he relied
upon most. He used her to carry his secret messages, and he taught her rudimentary
magic, which helped her remain undiscovered and, on occasion, extract information from
people. He did his best to protect her from the rest of the Thirteen—not out of any
feelings for her, but because they would have used her against him, given the chance. . . .
For three years things proceeded in this manner, until my mother became pregnant.”

Murtagh paused for a moment, fingering a lock of his hair. He continued in a clipped
tone, “My father was, if nothing else, a cunning man. He knew that the pregnancy put
both him and my mother in danger, not to mention the baby—that is, me. So, in the dead
of night, he spirited her away from the palace and took her to his castle. Once there, he
laid down powerful spells that prevented anyone from entering his estate except for a few
chosen servants. In this way the pregnancy was kept secret from everyone but Galbatorix.

“Galbatorix knew the intimate details of the Thirteen’s lives: their plots, their fights—and
most importantly—their thoughts. He enjoyed watching them battle each other and often


helped one or the other for his own amusement. But for some reason he never revealed
my existence.

“I was born in due time and given to a wet nurse so my mother could return to Morzan’s
side. She had no choice in the matter. Morzan allowed her to visit me every few months,
but otherwise we were kept apart. Another three years passed like this, during which time
he gave me the . . . scar on my back.” Murtagh brooded a minute before continuing.

“I would have grown to manhood in this fashion if Morzan hadn’t been summoned away
to hunt for Saphira’s egg. As soon as he departed, my mother, who had been left behind,
vanished. No one knows where she went, or why. The king tried to hunt her down, but
his men couldn’t find her trail—no doubt because of Morzan’s training.

“At the time of my birth, only five of the Thirteen were still alive. By the time Morzan
left, that number had been reduced to three; when he finally faced Brom in Gil’ead, he
was the only one remaining. The Forsworn died through various means: suicide, ambush,
overuse of magic . . . but it was mostly the work of the Varden. I’m told that the king was
in a terrible rage because of those losses.

“However, before word of Morzan’s and the others’ deaths reached us, my mother
returned. Many months had passed since she had disappeared. Her health was poor, as if
she had suffered a great illness, and she grew steadily worse. Within a fortnight, she
died.”

“What happened then?” prompted Eragon.

Murtagh shrugged. “I grew up. The king brought me to the palace and arranged for my
upbringing. Aside from that, he left me alone.”

“Then why did you leave?”

A hard laugh broke from Murtagh. “Escaped is more like it. At my last birthday, when I
turned eighteen, the king summoned me to his quarters for a private dinner. The message
surprised me because I had always distanced myself from the court and had rarely met
him. We’d talked before, but always within earshot of eavesdropping nobles.

“I accepted the offer, of course, aware that it would be unwise to refuse. The meal was
sumptuous, but throughout it his black eyes never left me. His gaze was disconcerting; it
seemed that he was searching for something hidden in my face. I didn’t know what to
make of it and did my best to provide polite conversation, but he refused to talk, and I
soon ceased my efforts.

“When the meal was finished, he finally began to speak. You’ve never heard his voice, so
it’s hard for me to make you understand what it was like. His words were entrancing, like
a snake whispering gilded lies into my ears. A more convincing and frightening man I’ve
never heard. He wove a vision: a fantasy of the Empire as he imagined it. There would be


beautiful cities built across the country, filled with the greatest warriors, artisans,
musicians, and philosophers. The Urgals would finally be eradicated. And the Empire
would expand in every direction until it reached the four corners of Alagaësia. Peace and
prosperity would flourish, but more wondrous yet, the Riders would be brought back to
gently govern over Galbatorix’s fiefdoms.

“Entranced, I listened to him for what must have been hours. When he stopped, I eagerly
asked how the Riders would be reinstated, for everyone knew there were no dragon eggs
left. Galbatorix grew still then and stared at me thoughtfully. For a long time he was
silent, but then he extended his hand and asked, ‘Will you, O son of my friend, serve me
as I labor to bring about this paradise?’

“Though I knew the history behind his and my father’s rise to power, the dream he had
painted for me was too compelling, too seductive to ignore. Ardor for this mission filled
me, and I fervently pledged myself to him. Obviously pleased, Galbatorix gave me his
blessing, then dismissed me, saying, ‘I shall call upon you when the need arises.’

“Several months passed before he did. When the summons came, I felt all of my old
excitement return. We met in private as before, but this time he was not pleasant or
charming. The Varden had just destroyed three brigades in the south, and his wrath was
out in full force. He charged me in a terrible voice to take a detachment of troops and
destroy Cantos, where rebels were known to hide occasionally. When I asked what we
should do with the people there and how we would know if they were guilty, he shouted,
‘They’re all traitors! Burn them at the stake and bury their ashes with dung!’ He
continued to rant, cursing his enemies and describing how he would scourge the land of
everyone who bore him ill will.

“His tone was so different from what I had encountered before; it made me realize he
didn’t possess the mercy or foresight to gain the people’s loyalty, and he ruled only
through brute force guided by his own passions. It was at that moment I determined to
escape him and Urû’baen forever.

“As soon as I was free of his presence, I and my faithful servant, Tornac, made ready for
flight. We left that very night, but somehow Galbatorix anticipated my actions, for there
were soldiers waiting for us outside the gates. Ah, my sword was bloody, flashing in the
dim lantern glow. We defeated the men . . . but in the process Tornac was killed.

“Alone and filled with grief, I fled to an old friend who sheltered me in his estate. While I
hid, I listened carefully to every rumor, trying to predict Galbatorix’s actions and plan my
future. During that time, talk reached me that the Ra’zac had been sent to capture or kill
someone. Remembering the king’s plans for the Riders, I decided to find and follow the
Ra’zac, just in case theydid discover a dragon. And that’s how I found you. . . . I have no
more secrets.”

We still don’t know if he’s telling the truth,warned Saphira.


I know,said Eragon,but why would he lie to us?

He might be mad.

I doubt it.Eragon ran a finger over Saphira’s hard scales, watching the light reflect off
them. “So why don’t you join the Varden? They’ll distrust you for a time, but once you
prove your loyalty they’ll treat you with respect. And aren’t they in a sense your allies?
They strive to end the king’s reign. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Must I spell everything out for you?” demanded Murtagh. “I don’t want Galbatorix to
learn where I am, which is inevitable if people start saying that I’ve sided with his
enemies, which I’ve never done. These,” he paused, then said with distaste, “rebelsare
trying not only to overthrow the king but to destroy the Empire . . . and I don’t want that
to happen. It would sow mayhem and anarchy. The king is flawed, yes, but the system
itself is sound. As for earning the Varden’s respect: Ha! Once I am exposed, they’ll treat
me like a criminal or worse. Not only that, suspicion will fall upon you because we
traveled together!”

He’s right,said Saphira.

Eragon ignored her. “It isn’t that bad,” he said, trying to sound optimistic. Murtagh
snorted derisively and looked away. “I’m sure that they won’t be—” His words were cut
short as the door opened a hand’s breadth and two bowls were pushed through the space.
A loaf of bread and a hunk of raw meat followed, then the door was shut again.

“Finally!” grumbled Murtagh, going to the food. He tossed the meat to Saphira, who
snapped it out of the air and swallowed it whole. Then he tore the loaf in two, gave half
to Eragon, picked up his bowl, and retreated to a corner.

They ate silently. Murtagh jabbed at his food. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced,
putting down his bowl without another word.

“Good night,” said Eragon. He lay next to Saphira, his arms under his head. She curled
her long neck around him, like a cat wrapping its tail around itself, and laid her head
alongside his. One of her wings extended over him like a blue tent, enveloping him in
darkness.

Good night, little one.

A small smile lifted Eragon’s lips, but he was already asleep.

THEGLORY
OFTRONJHEIM


Eragon jolted upright as a growl sounded in his ear. Saphira was still asleep, her eyes
wandering sightlessly under her eyelids, and her upper lip trembled, as if she were going
to snarl. He smiled, then jerked as she growled again.

She must be dreaming,he realized. He watched her for a minute, then carefully slid out
from under her wing. He stood and stretched. The room was cool, but not unpleasantly
so. Murtagh lay on his back in the far corner, his eyes closed.

As Eragon stepped around Saphira, Murtagh stirred. “Morning,” he said quietly, sitting
up.

“How long have you been awake?” asked Eragon in a hushed voice.

“Awhile. I’m surprised Saphira didn’t wake you sooner.”

“I was tired enough to sleep through a thunderstorm,” said Eragon wryly. He sat by
Murtagh and rested his head against the wall. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No. It’s impossible to tell in here.”

“Has anyone come to see us?”

“Not yet.”

They sat together without moving or speaking. Eragon felt oddly bound to Murtagh.I’ve
been carrying his father’s sword, which would have been his . . . his inheritance. We’re
alike in many ways, yet our outlook and upbringing are totally different. He thought of
Murtagh’s scar and shivered.What man could do that to a child?

Saphira lifted her head and blinked to clear her eyes. She sniffed the air, then yawned
expansively, her rough tongue curling at the tip.Has anything happened? Eragon shook
his head.I hope they give me more food than that snack last night. I’m hungry enough to
eat a herd of cows.

They’ll feed you,he assured her.

They’d better.She positioned herself near the door and settled down to wait, tail flicking.
Eragon closed his eyes, enjoying the rest. He dozed awhile, then got up and paced
around. Bored, he examined one of the lanterns. It was made of a single piece of
teardrop-shaped glass, about twice the size of a lemon, and filled with soft blue light that
neither wavered nor flickered. Four slim metal ribs wrapped smoothly around the glass,
meeting at the top to form a small hook and again at the bottom where they melded
together into three graceful legs. The whole piece was quite attractive.


Eragon’s inspection was interrupted by voices outside the room. The door opened, and a
dozen warriors marched inside. The first man gulped when he saw Saphira. They were
followed by Orik and the bald man, who declared, “You have been summoned to Ajihad,
leader of the Varden. If you must eat, do so while we march.” Eragon and Murtagh stood
together, watching him warily.

“Where are our horses? And can I have my sword and bow back?” asked Eragon.

The bald man looked at him with disdain. “Your weapons will be returned to you when
Ajihad sees fit, not before. As for your horses, they await you in the tunnel. Now come!”

As he turned to leave, Eragon asked quickly, “How is Arya?”

The bald man hesitated. “I do not know. The healers are still with her.” He exited the
room, accompanied by Orik.

One of the warriors motioned. “You go first.” Eragon went through the doorway,
followed by Saphira and Murtagh. They returned through the corridor they had traversed
the night before, passing the statue of the quilled animal. When they reached the huge
tunnel through which they had first entered the mountain, the bald man was waiting with
Orik, who held Tornac’s and Snowfire’s reins.

“You will ride single file down the center of the tunnel,” instructed the bald man. “If you
attempt to go anywhere else, you will be stopped.” When Eragon started to climb onto
Saphira, the bald man shouted, “No! Ride your horse until I tell you otherwise.”

Eragon shrugged and took Snowfire’s reins. He swung into the saddle, guided Snowfire
in front of Saphira, and told her,Stay close in case I need your help.

Of course,she said.

Murtagh mounted Tornac behind Saphira. The bald man examined their small line, then
gestured at the warriors, who divided in half to surround them, giving Saphira as wide a
berth as possible. Orik and the bald man went to the head of the procession.

After looking them over once more, the bald man clapped twice and started walking
forward. Eragon tapped Snowfire lightly on his flanks. The entire group headed toward
the heart of the mountain. Echoes filled the tunnel as the horses’ hooves struck the hard
floor, the sounds amplified in the deserted passageway. Doors and gates occasionally
disturbed the smooth walls, but they were always closed.

Eragon marveled at the sheer size of the tunnel, which had been mined with incredible
skill—the walls, floor, and ceiling were crafted with flawless precision. The angles at the
bases of the walls were perfectly square, and as far as he could tell, the tunnel itself did
not vary from its course by even an inch.


As they proceeded, Eragon’s anticipation about meeting Ajihad increased. The leader of
the Varden was a shadowy figure to the people within the Empire. He had risen to power
nearly twenty years ago and since then had waged a fierce war against King Galbatorix.
No one knew where he came from or even what he looked like. It was rumored that he
was a master strategist, a brutal fighter. With such a reputation, Eragon worried about
how they would be received. Still, knowing that Brom had trusted the Varden enough to
serve them helped to allay his fears.

Seeing Orik again had brought forth new questions in his mind. The tunnel was obviously
dwarf work—no one else could mine with such skill—but were the dwarves part of the
Varden, or were they merely sheltering them? And who was the king that Orik had
mentioned? Was it Ajihad? Eragon understood now that the Varden had been able to
escape discovery by hiding underground, but what about the elves? Where were they?

For nearly an hour the bald man led them through the tunnel, never straying nor
turning.We’ve probably already gone a league, Eragon realized.Maybe they’re taking us
all the way through the mountain! At last a soft white glow became visible ahead of
them. He strained his eyes, trying to discern its source, but it was still too far away to
make out any details. The glow increased in strength as they neared it.

Now he could see thick marble pillars laced with rubies and amethysts standing in rows
along the walls. Scores of lanterns hung between the pillars, suffusing the air with liquid
brilliance. Gold tracery gleamed from the pillars’ bases like molten thread. Arching over
the ceiling were carved raven heads, their beaks open in mid-screech. At the end of the
hallway rested two colossal black doors, accented by shimmering silver lines that
depicted a seven-pointed crown that spanned both sides.

The bald man stopped and raised a hand. He turned to Eragon. “You will ride upon your
dragon now. Do not attempt to fly away. There will be people watching, so remember
who and what you are.”

Eragon dismounted Snowfire, and then clambered onto Saphira’s back.I think they want
to show us off, she said as he settled into the saddle.

We’ll see. I wish I had Zar’roc,he replied, tightening the straps around his legs.

It might be better that you aren’t wearing Morzan’s sword when the Varden first see you.

True.“I’m ready,” Eragon said, squaring his shoulders.

“Good,” said the bald man. He and Orik retreated to either side of Saphira, staying far
enough back so she was clearly in the lead. “Now walk to the doors, and once they open,
follow the path. Go slowly.”

Ready?asked Eragon.


Of course.Saphira approached the doors at a measured pace. Her scales sparkled in the
light, sending glints of color dancing over the pillars. Eragon took a deep breath to steady
his nerves.

Without warning, the doors swung outward on hidden joints. As the rift widened between
them, rays of sunlight streamed into the tunnel, falling on Saphira and Eragon.
Temporarily blinded, Eragon blinked and squinted. When his eyes adjusted to the light,
he gasped.

They were inside a massive volcanic crater. Its walls narrowed to a small ragged opening
so high above that Eragon could not judge the distance—it might have been more than a
dozen miles. A soft beam of light fell through the aperture, illuminating the crater’s
center, though it left the rest of the cavernous expanse in hushed twilight.

The crater’s far side, hazy blue in the distance, looked to be nearly ten miles away. Giant
icicles hundreds of feet thick and thousands of feet long hung leagues above them like
glistening daggers. Eragon knew from his experience in the valley that no one, not even
Saphira, could reach those lofty points. Farther down the crater’s inner walls, dark mats
of moss and lichen covered the rock.

He lowered his gaze and saw a wide cobblestone path extending from the doors’
threshold. The path ran straight to the center of the crater, where it ended at the base of a
snowy-white mountain that glittered like an uncut gem with thousands of colored lights.
It was less than a tenth of the height of the crater that loomed over and around it, but its
diminutive appearance was deceiving, for it was slightly higher than a mile.

Long as it was, the tunnel had only taken them through one side of the crater wall. As
Eragon stared, he heard Orik say deeply, “Look well, human, for no Rider has set eyes
upon this for nigh over a hundred years. The airy peak under which we stand is Farthen
Dûr—discovered thousands of years ago by the father of our race, Korgan, while he
tunneled for gold. And in the center stands our greatest achievement: Tronjheim, the city-
mountain built from the purest marble.” The doors grated to a halt.

A city!

Then Eragon saw the crowd. He had been so engrossed by the sights that he had failed to
notice a dense sea of people clustered around the tunnel’s entrance. They lined the
cobblestone pathway—dwarves and humans packed together like trees in a thicket. There
were hundreds . . . thousands of them. Every eye, every face was focused on Eragon. And
every one of them was silent.

Eragon gripped the base of one of Saphira’s neck spikes. He saw children in dirty
smocks, hardy men with scarred knuckles, women in homespun dresses, and stout,
weathered dwarves who fingered their beards. All of them bore the same taut
expression—that of an injured animal when a predator is nearby and escape is
impossible.


A bead of sweat rolled down Eragon’s face, but he dared not move to wipe it away.What
should I do? he asked frantically.

Smile, raise your hand, anything!replied Saphira sharply.

Eragon tried to force out a smile, but his lips only twitched. Gathering his courage, he
pushed a hand into the air, jerking it in a little wave. When nothing happened, he flushed
with embarrassment, lowered his arm, and ducked his head.

A single cheer broke the silence. Someone clapped loudly. For a brief second the crowd
hesitated, then a wild roar swept through it, and a wave of sound crashed over Eragon.

“Very good,” said the bald man from behind him. “Now start walking.”

Relieved, Eragon sat straighter and playfully asked Saphira,Shall we go? She arched her
neck and stepped forward. As they passed the first row of people, she glanced to each
side and exhaled a puff of smoke. The crowd quieted and shrank back, then resumed
cheering, their enthusiasm only intensified.

Show-off,chided Eragon. Saphira flicked her tail and ignored him. He stared curiously at
the jostling crowd as she proceeded along the path. Dwarves greatly outnumbered
humans . . . and many of them glared at him resentfully. Some even turned their backs
and walked away with stony faces.

The humans were hard, tough people. All the men had daggers or knives at their waists;
many were armed for war. The women carried themselves proudly, but they seemed to
conceal a deep-abiding weariness. The few children and babies stared at Eragon with
large eyes. He felt certain that these people had experienced much hardship and that they
would do whatever was necessary to defend themselves.

The Varden had found the perfect hiding place. Farthen Dûr’s walls were too high for a
dragon to fly over, and no army could break through the entranceway, even if it managed
to find the hidden doors.

The crowd followed close behind them, giving Saphira plenty of room. Gradually the
people quieted, though their attention remained on Eragon. He looked back and saw
Murtagh riding stiffly, his face pale.

Theyneared the city-mountain, and Eragonsaw that the white marble ofTronjheimwas
highly polished and shaped into flowing contours, as if it had been poured into place. It
was dotted with countless round windows framed by elaborate carvings. A colored
lantern hung in each window, casting a soft glow on the surrounding rock. No turrets or
smokestacks were visible. Directly ahead, two thirty-foot-high gold griffins guarded a
massive timber gate—recessed twenty yards into the base of Tronjheim—which was
shadowed by thick trusses that supported an arched vault far overhead.


When they reached Tronjheim’s base, Saphira paused to see if the bald man had any
instructions. When none were forthcoming, she continued to the gate. The walls were
lined with fluted pillars of blood-red jasper. Between the pillars hulked statues of
outlandish creatures, captured forever by the sculptor’s chisel.

The heavy gate rumbled open before them as hidden chains slowly raised the mammoth
beams. A four-story-high passageway extended straight toward the center of Tronjheim.
The top three levels were pierced by rows of archways that revealed gray tunnels curving
off into the distance. Clumps of people filled the arches, eagerly watching Eragon and
Saphira. On ground level, however, the archways were barred by stout doors. Rich
tapestries hung between the different levels, embroidered with heroic figures and
tumultuous battle scenes.

A cheer rang in their ears as Saphira stepped into the hall and paraded down it. Eragon
raised his hand, eliciting another roar from the throng, though many of the dwarves did
not join the welcoming shout.

The mile-long hall ended in an arch flanked by black onyx pillars. Yellow zircons three
times the size of a man capped the dark columns, coruscating piercing gold beams along
the hall. Saphira stepped through the opening, then stopped and craned back her neck,
humming deeply in her chest.

They were in a circular room, perhaps a thousand feet across, that reached up to
Tronjheim’s peak a mile overhead, narrowing as it rose. The walls were lined with
arches—one row for each level of the city-mountain—and the floor was made of polished
carnelian, upon which was etched a hammer girdled by twelve silver pentacles, like on
Orik’s helm.

The room was a nexus for four hallways—including the one they had just exited—that
divided Tronjheim into quarters. The halls were identical except for the one opposite
Eragon. To the right and left of that hall were tall arches that opened to descending stairs,
which mirrored each other as they curved underground.

The ceiling was capped by a dawn-red star sapphire of monstrous size. The jewel was
twenty yards across and nearly as thick. Its face had been carved to resemble a rose in full
bloom, and so skilled was the craftsmanship, the flower almost seemed to be real. A wide
belt of lanterns wrapped around the edge of the sapphire, which cast striated bands of
blushing light over everything below. The flashing rays of the star within the gem made it
appear as if a giant eye gazed down at them.

Eragon could only gape with wonder. Nothing had prepared him for this. It seemed
impossible that Tronjheim had been built by mortal beings. The city-mountain shamed
everything he had seen in the Empire. He doubted if even Urû’baen could match the
wealth and grandeur displayed here. Tronjheim was a stunning monument to the
dwarves’ power and perseverance.


The bald man walked in front of Saphira and said, “You must go on foot from here.”
There was scattered booing from the crowd as he spoke. A dwarf took Tornac and
Snowfire away. Eragon dismounted Saphira but stayed by her side as the bald man led
them across the carnelian floor to the right-hand hallway.

They followed it for several hundred feet, then entered a smaller corridor. Their guards
remained despite the cramped space. After four sharp turns, they came to a massive cedar
door, stained black with age. The bald man pulled it open and conducted everyone but the
guards inside.

AJIHAD

Eragon entered an elegant, two-story study paneled with rows of cedar bookshelves. A
wrought-iron staircase wound up to a small balcony with two chairs and a reading table.
White lanterns hung along the walls and ceiling so a book could be read anywhere in the
room. The stone floor was covered by an intricate oval rug. At the far end of the room, a
man stood behind a large walnut desk.

His skin gleamed the color of oiled ebony. The dome of his head was shaved bare, but a
closely trimmed black beard covered his chin and upper lip. Strong features shadowed his
face, and grave, intelligent eyes lurked under his brow. His shoulders were broad and
powerful, emphasized by a tapered red vest embroidered with gold thread and clasped
over a rich purple shirt. He bore himself with great dignity, exuding an intense,
commanding air.

When he spoke, his voice was strong, confident: “Welcome to Tronjheim, Eragon and
Saphira. I am Ajihad. Please, seat yourselves.”

Eragon slipped into an armchair next to Murtagh, while Saphira settled protectively
behind them. Ajihad raised his hand and snapped his fingers. A man stepped out from
behind the staircase. He was identical to the bald man beside him. Eragon stared at the
two of them with surprise, and Murtagh stiffened. “Your confusion is understandable;
they are twin brothers,” said Ajihad with a small smile. “I would tell you their names, but
they have none.”

Saphira hissed with distaste. Ajihad watched her for a moment, then sat in a high-backed
chair behind the desk. The Twins retreated under the stairs and stood impassively beside
each other. Ajihad pressed his fingers together as he stared at Eragon and Murtagh. He
studied them for a long time with an unwavering gaze.

Eragon squirmed, uncomfortable. After what seemed like several minutes, Ajihad
lowered his hands and beckoned to the Twins. One of them hurried to his side. Ajihad
whispered in his ear. The bald man suddenly paled and shook his head vigorously. Ajihad
frowned, then nodded as if something had been confirmed.


He looked at Murtagh. “You have placed me in a difficult position by refusing to be
examined. You have been allowed into Farthen Dûr because the Twins have assured me
that they can control you and because of your actions on behalf of Eragon and Arya. I
understand that there may be things you wish to keep hidden in your mind, but as long as
you do, we cannot trust you.”

“You wouldn’t trust me anyway,” said Murtagh defiantly.

Ajihad’s face darkened as Murtagh spoke, and his eyes flashed dangerously. “Though it’s
been twenty and three years since it last broke upon my ear . . . I know that voice.” He
stood ominously, chest swelling. The Twins looked alarmed and put their heads together,
whispering frantically. “It came from another man, one more beast than human. Get up.”

Murtagh warily complied, his eyes darting between the Twins and Ajihad. “Remove your
shirt,” ordered Ajihad. With a shrug, Murtagh pulled off his tunic. “Now turn around.”
As he pivoted to the side, light fell upon the scar on his back.

“Murtagh,” breathed Ajihad. A grunt of surprise came from Orik. Without warning,
Ajihad turned on the Twins and thundered, “Did you know of this?”

The Twins bowed their heads. “We discovered his name in Eragon’s mind, but we did
not suspect that thisboy was the son of one as powerful as Morzan. It never occurred—”

“And you didn’t tell me?” demanded Ajihad. He raised a hand, forestalling their
explanation. “We will discuss it later.” He faced Murtagh again. “First I must untangle
this muddle. Do you still refuse to be probed?”

“Yes,” said Murtagh sharply, slipping back into his tunic. “I won’t let anyone inside my
head.”

Ajihad leaned on his desk. “There will be unpleasant consequences if you don’t. Unless
the Twins can certify that you aren’t a threat, we cannot give you credence, despite, and
perhaps because of, the assistance you have given Eragon. Without that verification, the
people here, dwarf and human alike, will tear you apart if they learn of your presence. I’ll
be forced to keep you confined at all times—as much for your protection as for ours. It
will only get worse once the dwarf king, Hrothgar, demands custody of you. Don’t force
yourself into that situation when it can easily be avoided.”

Murtagh shook his head stubbornly. “No . . . even if I were to submit, I would still be
treated like a leper and an outcast. All I wish is to leave. If you let me do that peacefully,
I’ll never reveal your location to the Empire.”

“What will happen if you are captured and brought before Galbatorix?” demanded
Ajihad. “He will extract every secret from your mind, no matter how strong you may be.
Even if you could resist him, how can we trust that you won’t rejoin him in the future? I
cannot take that chance.”


“Will you hold me prisoner forever?” demanded Murtagh, straightening.

“No,” said Ajihad, “only until you let yourself be examined. If you are found trustworthy,
the Twins will remove all knowledge of Farthen Dûr’s location from your mind before
you leave. We won’t risk someone with those memories falling into Galbatorix’s hands.
What is it to be, Murtagh? Decide quickly or else the path will be chosen for you.”

Just give in,Eragon pleaded silently, concerned for Murtagh’s safety.It’s not worth the
fight.

Finally Murtagh spoke, the words slow and distinct. “My mind is the one sanctuary that
has not been stolen from me. Men have tried to breach it before, but I’ve learned to
defend it vigorously, for I am only safe with my innermost thoughts. You have asked for
the one thing I cannot give, least of all to those two.” He gestured at the Twins. “Do with
me what you will, but know this: death will take me before I’ll expose myself to their
probing.”

Admiration glinted in Ajihad’s eyes. “I’m not surprised by your choice, though I had
hoped otherwise. . . . Guards!” The cedar door slammed open as warriors rushed in,
weapons ready. Ajihad pointed at Murtagh and commanded, “Take him to a windowless
room and bar the door securely. Post six men by the entrance and allow no one inside
until I come to see him. Do not speak to him, either.”

The warriors surrounded Murtagh, watching him suspiciously. As they left the study,
Eragon caught Murtagh’s attention and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Murtagh shrugged, then
stared forward resolutely. He vanished into the hallway with the men. The sound of their
feet faded into silence.

Ajihad said abruptly, “I want everyone out of this room but Eragon and Saphira. Now!”

Bowing, the Twins departed, but Orik said, “Sir, the king will want to know of Murtagh.
And there is still the matter of my insubordination. . . .”

Ajihad frowned, then waved his hand. “I will tell Hrothgar myself. As for your actions . .
. wait outside until I call for you. And don’t let the Twins get away. I’m not done with
them, either.”

“Very well,” said Orik, inclining his head. He closed the door with a solid thump.

After a long silence, Ajihad sat with a tired sigh. He ran a hand over his face and stared at
the ceiling. Eragon waited impatiently for him to speak. When nothing was forthcoming,
he blurted, “Is Arya all right?”

Ajihad looked down at him and said gravely, “No . . . but the healers tell me she will
recover. They worked on her all through the night. The poison took a dreadful toll on her.
She wouldn’t have lived if not for you. For that you have the Varden’s deepest thanks.”


Eragon’s shoulders slumped with relief. For the first time he felt that their flight from
Gil’ead had been worth the effort. “So, what now?” he asked.

“I need you to tell me how you found Saphira and everything that’s happened since,” said
Ajihad, forming a steeple with his fingers. “Some of it I know from the message Brom
sent us, other parts from the Twins. But I want to hear it from you, especially the details
concerning Brom’s death.”

Eragon was reluctant to share his experiences with a stranger, but Ajihad was patient.Go
on, urged Saphira gently. Eragon shifted, then began his story. It was awkward at first but
grew easier as he proceeded. Saphira helped him to remember things clearly with
occasional comments. Ajihad listened intently the entire time.

Eragon talked for hours, often pausing between his words. He told Ajihad of Teirm,
though he kept Angela’s fortunetelling to himself, and how he and Brom had found the
Ra’zac. He even related his dreams of Arya. When he came to Gil’ead and mentioned the
Shade, Ajihad’s face hardened, and he leaned back with veiled eyes.

When his narrative was complete, Eragon fell silent, brooding on all that had occurred.
Ajihad stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and absently studied one of the
bookshelves. After a time he returned to the desk.

“Brom’s death is a terrible loss. He was a close friend of mine and a powerful ally of the
Varden. He saved us from destruction many times through his bravery and intelligence.
Even now, when he is gone, he’s provided us with the one thing that can ensure our
success—you.”

“But what can you expect me to accomplish?” asked Eragon.

“I will explain it in full,” said Ajihad, “but there are more urgent matters to be dealt with
first. The news of the Urgals’ alliance with the Empire is extremely serious. If Galbatorix
is gathering an Urgal army to destroy us, the Varden will be hard pressed to survive, even
though many of us are protected here in Farthen Dûr. That a Rider, even one as evil as
Galbatorix, would consider a pact with such monsters is indeed proof of madness. I
shudder to think of what he promised them in return for their fickle loyalty. And then
there is the Shade. Can you describe him?”

Eragon nodded. “He was tall, thin, and very pale, with red eyes and hair. He was dressed
all in black.”

“What of his sword—did you see it?” asked Ajihad intensely. “Did it have a long scratch
on the blade?”

“Yes,” said Eragon, surprised. “How did you know?”


“Because I put it there while trying to cut out his heart,” said Ajihad with a grim smile.
“His name is Durza—one of the most vicious and cunning fiends to ever stalk this land.
He is the perfect servant for Galbatorix and a dangerous enemy for us. You say that you
killed him. How was it done?”

Eragon remembered it vividly. “Murtagh shot him twice. The first arrow caught him in
the shoulder; the second one struck him between the eyes.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Ajihad, frowning. “You didn’t kill him. Shades can only be
destroyed by a thrust through the heart. Anything short of that will cause them to vanish
and then reappear elsewhere in spirit form. It’s an unpleasant process, but Durza will
survive and return stronger than ever.”

A moody silence settled over them like a foreboding thunderhead. Then Ajihad stated,
“You are an enigma, Eragon, a quandary that no one knows how to solve. Everyone
knows what the Varden want—or the Urgals, or even Galbatorix—but no one knows
whatyou want. And that makes you dangerous, especially to Galbatorix. He fears you
because he doesn’t know what you will do next.”

“Do the Varden fear me?” asked Eragon quietly.

“No,” said Ajihad carefully. “We are hopeful. But if that hope proves false, then yes, we
will be afraid.” Eragon looked down. “You must understand the unusual nature of your
position. There are factions who want you to serve their interests and no one else’s. The
moment you entered Farthen Dûr, their influence and power began tugging on you.”

“Including yours?” asked Eragon.

Ajihad chuckled, though his eyes were sharp. “Including mine. There are certain things
you should know: first is how Saphira’s egg happened to appear in the Spine. Did Brom
ever tell you what was done with her egg after he brought it here?”

“No,” said Eragon, glancing at Saphira. She blinked and flicked her tongue at him.

Ajihad tapped his desk before beginning. “When Brom first brought the egg to the
Varden, everyone was deeply interested in its fate. We had thought the dragons were
exterminated. The dwarves were solely concerned with making sure that the future Rider
would be an ally—though some of them were opposed to having a new Rider at all—
while the elves and Varden had a more personal stake in the matter. The reason was
simple enough: throughout history all the Riders have been either elven or human, with
the majority being elven. There has never been a dwarf Rider.

“Because of Galbatorix’s betrayals, the elves were reluctant to let any of the Varden
handle the egg for fear that the dragon inside would hatch for a human with similar
instabilities. It was a challenging situation, as both sides wanted the Rider for their own.
The dwarves only aggravated the problem by arguing obstinately with both the elves and


us whenever they had the chance. Tensions escalated, and before long, threats were made
that were later regretted. It was then that Brom suggested a compromise that allowed all
sides to save face.

“He proposed that the egg be ferried between the Varden and the elves every year. At
each place children would parade past it, and then the bearers of the egg would wait to
see if the dragon would hatch. If it didn’t, they would leave and return to the other group.
But if the dragondid hatch, the new Rider’s training would be undertaken immediately.
For the first year or so he or she would be instructed here, by Brom. Then the Rider
would be taken to the elves, who would finish the education.

“The elves reluctantly accepted this plan . . . with the stipulation that if Brom were to die
before the dragon hatched, they would be free to train the new Rider without interference.
The agreement was slanted in their favor—we both knew that the dragon would likely
chose an elf—but it provided a desperately needed semblance of equality.”

Ajihad paused, his rich eyes somber. Shadows bit into his face under his cheekbones,
making them jut out. “It was hoped that this new Rider would bring our two races closer
together. We waited for well over a decade, but the egg never hatched. The matter passed
from our minds, and we rarely thought about it except to lament the egg’s inactivity.

“Then last year we suffered a terrible loss. Arya and the egg disappeared on her return
from Tronjheim to the elven city Osilon. The elves were the first to discover she was
missing. They found her steed and guards slain in Du Weldenvarden and a group of
slaughtered Urgals nearby. But neither Arya nor the egg was there. When this news
reached me, I feared that Urgals had both of them and would soon learn the location of
Farthen Dûr and the elves’ capital, Ellesméra, where their queen, Islanzadi, lives. Now I
understand they were working for the Empire, which is far worse.

“We won’t know exactly what occurred during that attack until Arya wakes, but I have
deduced a few details from what you’ve said.” Ajihad’s vest rustled as he leaned his
elbows on the desk. “The attack must have been swift and decisive, else Arya would have
escaped. Without any warning, and deprived of a place to hide, she could have done only
one thing—used magic to transport the egg elsewhere.”

“She can use magic?” asked Eragon. Arya had mentioned that she had been given a drug
to suppress her power; he wanted to confirm that she meant magic. He wondered if she
could teach him more words of the ancient language.

“It was one of the reasons why she was chosen to guard the egg. Anyway, Arya couldn’t
have returned it to us—she was too far away—and the elves’ realm is warded by arcane
barriers that prevent anything from entering their borders through magical means. She
must have thought of Brom and, in desperation, sent the egg toward Carvahall. Without
time to prepare, I’m not surprised she missed by the margin she did. The Twins tell me it
is an imprecise art.”


“Why was she closer to Palancar Valley than the Varden?” asked Eragon. “Where do the
elves really live? Where is this . . . Ellesméra?”

Ajihad’s keen gaze bored into Eragon as he considered the question. “I don’t tell you this
lightly, for the elves guard the knowledge jealously. But you should know, and I do this
as a display of trust. Their cities lie far to the north, in the deepest reaches of the endless
forest Du Weldenvarden. Not since the Riders’ time has anyone, dwarf or human, been
elf-friend enough to walk in their leafy halls. I do not even know how to find Ellesméra.
As for Osilon . . . based on where Arya disappeared, I suspect it is near Du
Weldenvarden’s western edge, toward Carvahall. You must have many other questions,
but bear with me and keep them until I have finished.”

He gathered his memories, then spoke at a quickened pace. “When Arya disappeared, the
elves withdrew their support from the Varden. Queen Islanzadi was especially enraged
and refused any further contact with us. As a result, even though I received Brom’s
message, the elves are still ignorant of you and Saphira. . . . Without their supplies to
sustain my troops, we have fared badly these past months in skirmishes with the Empire.

“With Arya’s return and your arrival, I expect the queen’s hostility will abate. The fact
that you rescued Arya will greatly help our case with her. Your training, however, is
going to present a problem for both Varden and elves. Brom obviously had a chance to
teach you, but we need to know how thorough he was. For that reason, you’ll have to be
tested to determine the extent of your abilities. Also, the elves will expect you to finish
your training with them, though I’m not sure if there’s time for that.”

“Why not?” asked Eragon.

“For several reasons. Chief among them, the tidings you brought about the Urgals,” said
Ajihad, his eyes straying to Saphira. “You see, Eragon, the Varden are in an extremely
delicate position. On one hand, we have to comply with the elves’ wishes if we want to
keep them as allies. At the same time, we cannot anger the dwarves if we wish to lodge in
Tronjheim.”

“Aren’t the dwarves part of the Varden?” asked Eragon.

Ajihad hesitated. “In a sense, yes. They allow us to live here and provide assistance in
our struggle against the Empire, but they are loyal only to their king. I have no power
over them except for what Hrothgar gives me, and even he often has trouble with the
dwarf clans. The thirteen clans are subservient to Hrothgar, but each clan chief wields
enormous power; they choose the new dwarf king when the old one dies. Hrothgar is
sympathetic to our cause, but many of the chiefs aren’t. He can’t afford to anger them
unnecessarily or he’ll lose the support of his people, so his actions on our behalf have
been severely circumscribed.”

“These clan chiefs,” said Eragon, “are they against me as well?”


“Even more so, I’m afraid,” said Ajihad wearily. “There has long been enmity between
dwarves and dragons—before the elves came and made peace, dragons made a regular
habit of eating the dwarves’ flocks and stealing their gold—and the dwarves are slow to
forget past wrongs. Indeed, they never fully accepted the Riders or allowed them to
police their kingdom. Galbatorix’s rise to power has only served to convince many of
them that it would be better never to deal with Riders or dragons ever again.” He directed
his last words at Saphira.

Eragon said slowly, “Why doesn’t Galbatorix know where Farthen Dûr and Ellesméra
are? Surely he was told of them when he was instructed by the Riders.”

“Told of them, yes—shown where they are, no. It’s one thing to know that Farthen Dûr
lies within these mountains, quite another to find it. Galbatorix hadn’t been taken to
either place before his dragon was killed. After that, of course, the Riders didn’t trust
him. He tried to force the information out of several Riders during his rebellion, but they
chose to die rather than reveal it to him. As for the dwarves, he’s never managed to
capture one alive, though it’s only a matter of time.”

“Then why doesn’t he just take an army and march through Du Weldenvarden until he
finds Ellesméra?” asked Eragon.

“Because the elves still have enough power to resist him,” said Ajihad. “He doesn’t dare
test his strength against theirs, at least not yet. But his cursed sorcery grows stronger each
year. With another Rider at his side, he would be unstoppable. He keeps trying to get one
of his two eggs to hatch, but so far he’s been unsuccessful.”

Eragon was puzzled. “How can his power be increasing? The strength of his body limits
his abilities—it can’t build itself up forever.”

“We don’t know,” said Ajihad, shrugging his broad shoulders, “and neither do the elves.
We can only hope that someday he will be destroyed by one of his own spells.” He
reached inside his vest and somberly pulled out a battered piece of parchment. “Do you
know what this is?” he asked, placing it on the desk.

Eragon bent forward and examined it. Lines of black script, written in an alien language,
were inked across the page. Large sections of the writing had been destroyed by blots of
blood. One edge of the parchment was charred. He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“It was taken from the leader of the Urgal host we destroyed last night. It cost us twelve
men to do so—they sacrificed themselves so that you might escape safely. The writing is
the king’s invention, a script he uses to communicate with his servants. It took me a
while, but I was able to devise its meaning, at least where it’s legible. It reads:


. . . gatekeeper at Ithrö Zhâda is to let this bearer and his minions pass. They are to be
bunked with the others of their kind and by . . . but only if the two factions refrain from
fighting. Command will be given under Tarok, under Gashz, under Durza, under Ushnark
the Mighty.

“Ushnark is Galbatorix. It means ‘father’ in the Urgal tongue, an affectation that pleases
him.

Find what they are suitable for and . . . The footmen and . . . are to be kept separate. No
weapons are to be distributed until . . . for marching.

“Nothing else can be read past there, except for a few vague words,” said Ajihad.

“Where’s Ithrö Zhâda? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nor have I,” confirmed Ajihad, “which makes me suspect that Galbatorix has renamed
an existing place for his own purposes. After deciphering this, I asked myself what
hundreds of Urgals were doing by the Beor Mountains where you first saw them and
where they were going. The parchment mentions ‘others of their kind,’ so I assume there
are even more Urgals at their destination. There’s only one reason for the king to gather
such a force—to forge a bastard army of humans and monsters to destroy us.

“For now, there is nothing to do but wait and watch. Without further information we
cannot find this Ithrö Zhâda. Still, Farthen Dûr has not yet been discovered, so there is
hope. The only Urgals to have seen it died last night.”

“How did you know we were coming?” asked Eragon. “One of the Twins was waiting for
us, and there was an ambush in place for the Kull.” He was aware of Saphira listening
intently. Though she kept her own counsel, he knew she would have things to say later.

“We have sentinels placed at the entrance of the valley you traveled through—on either
side of the Beartooth River. They sent a dove to warn us,” explained Ajihad.

Eragon wondered if it was the same bird Saphira had tried to eat. “When the egg and
Arya disappeared, did you tell Brom? He said that he hadn’t heard anything from the
Varden.”

“We tried to alert him,” said Ajihad, “but I suspect our men were intercepted and killed
by the Empire. Why else would the Ra’zac have gone to Carvahall? After that, Brom was
traveling with you, and it was impossible to get word to him. I was relieved when he


contacted me via messenger from Teirm. It didn’t surprise me that he went to Jeod; they
were old friends. And Jeod could easily send us a message because he smuggles supplies
to us through Surda.

“All of this has raised serious questions. How did the Empire know where to ambush
Arya and, later, our messengers to Carvahall? How has Galbatorix learned which
merchants help the Varden? Jeod’s business has been virtually destroyed since you left
him, as have those of other merchants who support us. Every time one of their ships sets
sail, it disappears. The dwarves cannot give us everything we need, so the Varden are in
desperate need of supplies. I’m afraid that we have a traitor, or traitors, in our midst,
despite our efforts to examine people’s minds for deceit.”

Eragon sank deep in thought, pondering what he had learned. Ajihad waited calmly for
him to speak, undisturbed by the silence. For the first time since finding Saphira’s egg,
Eragon felt that he understood what was going on around him. At last he knew where
Saphira came from and what might lie in his future. “What do you want from me?” he
asked.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, what is expected of me in Tronjheim? You and the elves have plans for me, but
what if I don’t like them?” A hard note crept into his voice. “I’ll fight when needed, revel
when there’s occasion, mourn when there is grief, and die if my time comes . . . but I
won’t let anyone use me against my will.” He paused to let the words sink in. “The
Riders of old were arbiters of justice above and beyond the leaders of their time. I don’t
claim that position—I doubt people would accept such oversight when they’ve been free
of it all their lives, especially from one as young as me. But Ido have power, and I will
wield it as I see fit. What I want to know is howyou plan to use me. Then I will decide
whether to agree to it.”

Ajihad looked at him wryly. “If you were anyone else and were before another leader,
you would likely have been killed for that insolent speech. What makes you think I will
expose my plans just because you demand it?” Eragon flushed but did not lower his gaze.
“Still, you are right. Your position gives you the privilege to say such things. You cannot
escape the politics of your situation—youwill be influenced, one way or another. I don’t
want to see you become a pawn of any one group or purpose any more than you do. You
must retain your freedom, for in it lies your true power: the ability to make choices
independent of any leader or king. My own authority over you will be limited, but I
believe it’s for the best. The difficulty lies in making sure that those with power include
you in their deliberations.

“Also, despite your protests, the people here have certain expectations of you. They are
going to bring you their problems, no matter how petty, and demand that you solve
them.” Ajihad leaned forward, his voice deadly serious. “There will be cases where
someone’s future will rest in your hands . . . with a word you can send them careening
into happiness or misery. Young women will seek your opinion on whom they should


marry—many will pursue you as a husband—and old men will ask which of their
children should receive an inheritance. Youmust be kind and wise with them all, for they
put their trust in you. Don’t speak flippantly or without thought, because your words will
have impact far beyond what you intend.”

Ajihad leaned back, his eyes hooded. “The burden of leadership is being responsible for
the well-being of the people in your charge. I have dealt with it from the day I was
chosen to head the Varden, and now you must as well. Be careful. I won’t tolerate
injustice under my command. Don’t worry about your youth and inexperience; they will
pass soon enough.”

Eragon was uncomfortable with the idea of people asking him for advice. “But you still
haven’t said what I’m to do here.”

“For now, nothing. You covered over a hundred and thirty leagues in eight days, a feat to
be proud of. I’m sure that you’ll appreciate rest. When you’ve recovered, we will test
your competency in arms and magic. After that—well, I will explain your options, and
then you’ll have to decide your course.”

“And what about Murtagh?” asked Eragon bitingly.

Ajihad’s face darkened. He reached beneath his desk and lifted up Zar’roc. The sword’s
polished sheath gleamed in the light. Ajihad slid his hand over it, lingering on the etched
sigil. “He will stay here until he allows the Twins into his mind.”

“You can’t imprison him,” argued Eragon. “He’s committed no crime!”

“We can’t give him his freedom without being sure that he won’t turn against us.
Innocent or not, he’s potentially as dangerous to us as his father was,” said Ajihad with a
hint of sadness.

Eragon realized that Ajihad would not be convinced otherwise, and his concernwas valid.
“How were you able to recognize his voice?”

“I met his father once,” said Ajihad shortly. He tapped Zar’roc’s hilt. “I wish Brom had
told me he had taken Morzan’s sword. I suggest that you don’t carry it within Farthen
Dûr. Many here remember Morzan’s time with hate, especially the dwarves.”

“I’ll remember that,” promised Eragon.

Ajihad handed Zar’roc to him. “That reminds me, I have Brom’s ring, which he sent as
confirmation of his identity. I was keeping it for when he returned to Tronjheim. Now
that he’s dead, I suppose it belongs to you, and I think he would have wanted you to have
it.” He opened a desk drawer and took the ring from it.


Eragon accepted it with reverence. The symbol cut into the face of the sapphire was
identical to the tattoo on Arya’s shoulder. He fit the ring onto his index finger, admiring
how it caught the light. “I . . . I am honored,” he said.

Ajihad nodded gravely, then pushed back his chair and stood. He faced Saphira and
spoke to her, his voice swelling in power. “Do not think that I have forgotten you, O
mighty dragon. I have said these things as much for your benefit as for Eragon’s. It is
even more important that you know them, for to you falls the task of guarding him in
these dangerous times. Do not underestimate your might nor falter at his side, because
without you he will surely fail.”

Saphira lowered her head until their eyes were level and stared at him through slitted
black pupils. They examined each other silently, neither of them blinking. Ajihad was the
first to move. He lowered his eyes and said softly, “It is indeed a privilege to meet you.”

He’ll do,said Saphira respectfully. She swung her head to face Eragon. Tell him that I am
impressed both with Tronjheim and with him. The Empire is right to fear him. Let him
know, however, that if he had decided to kill you, I would have destroyed Tronjheim and
torn him apart with my teeth.

Eragon hesitated, surprised by the venom in her voice, then relayed the message. Ajihad
looked at her seriously. “I would expect nothing less from one so noble—but I doubt you
could have gotten past the Twins.”

Saphira snorted with derision.Bah!

Knowing what she meant, Eragon said, “Then they must be much stronger than they
appear. I think they would be sorely dismayed if they ever faced a dragon’s wrath. The
two of them might be able to defeat me, but never Saphira. You should know, a Rider’s
dragon strengthens his magic beyond what a normal magician might have. Brom was
always weaker than me because of that. I think that in the absence of Riders, the Twins
have overestimated their power.”

Ajihad looked troubled. “Brom was considered one of our strongest spell weavers. Only
the elves surpassed him. If what you say is true, we will have to reconsider a great many
things.” He bowed to Saphira. “As it is, I am glad it wasn’t necessary to harm either of
you.” Saphira dipped her head in return.

Ajihad straightened with a lordly air and called, “Orik!” The dwarf hurried into the room
and stood before the desk, crossing his arms. Ajihad frowned at him, irritated. “You’ve
caused me a great deal of trouble, Orik. I’ve had to listen to one of the Twins complain
all morning about your insubordination. They won’t let it rest until you are punished.
Unfortunately they’re right. It’s a serious matter that cannot be ignored. An accounting is
due.”


Orik’s eyes flicked toward Eragon, but his face betrayed no emotion. He spoke quickly in
rough tones. “The Kull were almost around Kóstha-mérna. They were shooting arrows at
the dragon, Eragon, and Murtagh, but the Twins did nothing to stop it. Like . . . sheilven,
they refused to open the gates even though we could see Eragon shouting the opening
phrase on the other side of the waterfall. And they refused to take action when Eragon did
not rise from the water. Perhaps I did wrong, but I couldn’t let a Rider die.”

“I wasn’t strong enough to get out of the water myself,” offered Eragon. “I would have
drowned if he hadn’t pulled me out.”

Ajihad glanced at him, then asked Orik seriously, “And later, why did you oppose them?”

Orik raised his chin defiantly. “It wasn’t right for them to force their way into Murtagh’s
mind. But I wouldn’t have stopped them if I’d known who he was.”

“No, you did the right thing, though it would be simpler if you hadn’t. It isn’t our place to
force our way into people’s minds, no matter who they are.” Ajihad fingered his dense
beard. “Your actions were honorable, but you did defy a direct order from your
commander. The penalty for that has always been death.” Orik’s back stiffened.

“You can’t kill him for that! He was only helping me,” cried Eragon.

“It isn’t your place to interfere,” said Ajihad sternly. “Orik broke the law and must suffer
the consequences.” Eragon started to argue again, but Ajihad stopped him with a raised
hand. “But you are right. The sentence will be mitigated because of the circumstances. As
of now, Orik, you are removed from active service and forbidden to engage in any
military activities under my command. Do you understand?”

Orik’s face darkened, but then he only looked confused. He nodded sharply. “Yes.”

“Furthermore, in the absence of your regular duties, I appoint you Eragon and Saphira’s
guide for the duration of their stay. You are to make sure they receive every comfort and
amenity we have to offer. Saphira will stay above Isidar Mithrim. Eragon may have
quarters wherever he wants. When he recovers from his trip, take him to the training
fields. They’re expecting him,” said Ajihad, a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

Orik bowed low. “I understand.”

“Very well, you all may go. Send in the Twins as you leave.”

Eragon bowed and began to leave, then asked, “Where can I find Arya? I would like to
see her.”

“No one is allowed to visit her. You will have to wait until she comes to you.” Ajihad
looked down at his desk in a clear dismissal.


BLESS THECHILD,ARGETLAM

Eragon stretched in the hall; he was stiff from sitting so long. Behind him, the Twins
entered Ajihad’s study and closed the door. Eragon looked at Orik. “I’m sorry that you’re
in trouble because of me,” he apologized.

“Don’t bother yourself,” grunted Orik, tugging on his beard. “Ajihad gave me what I
wanted.”

Even Saphira was startled by the statement. “What do you mean?” said Eragon. “You
can’t train or fight, and you’re stuck guarding me. How can that be what you wanted?”

The dwarf eyed him quietly. “Ajihad is a good leader. He understands how to keep the
law yet remain just. I have been punished by his command, but I’m also one of
Hrothgar’s subjects. Under his rule, I’m still free to do what I wish.”

Eragon realized it would be unwise to forget Orik’s dual loyalty and the split nature of
power within Tronjheim. “Ajihad just placed you in a powerful position, didn’t he?”

Orik chuckled deeply. “That he did, and in such a way the Twins can’t complain about it.
This’ll irritate them for sure. Ajihad’s a tricky one, he is. Come, lad, I’m sure you’re
hungry. And we have to get your dragon settled in.”

Saphira hissed. Eragon said, “Her name is Saphira.”

Orik made a small bow to her. “My apologies, I’ll be sure to remember that.” He took an
orange lamp from the wall and led them down the hallway.

“Can others in Farthen Dûr use magic?” asked Eragon, struggling to keep up with the
dwarf’s brisk pace. He cradled Zar’roc carefully, concealing the symbol on the sheath
with his arm.

“Few enough,” said Orik with a swift shrug under his mail. “And the ones we have can’t
do much more than heal bruises. They’ve all had to tend to Arya because of the strength
needed to heal her.”

“Except for the Twins.”

“Oeí,” grumbled Orik. “She wouldn’t want their help anyway; their arts are not for
healing. Their talents lie in scheming and plotting for power—to everyone else’s
detriment. Deynor, Ajihad’s predecessor, allowed them to join the Varden because he
needed their support . . . you can’t oppose the Empire without spellcasters who can hold
their own on the field of battle. They’re a nasty pair, but they do have their uses.”


They entered one of the four main tunnels that divided Tronjheim. Clusters of dwarves
and humans strolled through it, voices echoing loudly off the polished floor. The
conversations stopped abruptly as they saw Saphira; scores of eyes fixed on her. Orik
ignored the spectators and turned left, heading toward one of Tronjheim’s distant gates.
“Where are we going?” asked Eragon.

“Out of these halls so Saphira can fly to the dragonhold above Isidar Mithrim, the Star
Rose. The dragonhold doesn’t have a roof—Tronjheim’s peak is open to the sky, like that
of Farthen Dûr—so she, that is, you, Saphira, will be able to glide straight down into the
hold. It is where the Riders used to stay when they visited Tronjheim.”

“Won’t it be cold and damp without a roof?” asked Eragon.

“Nay.” Orik shook his head. “Farthen Dûr protects us from the elements. Neither rain nor
snow intrude here. Besides, the hold’s walls are lined with marble caves for dragons.
They provide all the shelter necessary. All you need fear are the icicles; when they fall
they’ve been known to cleave a horse in two.”

I will be fine,assured Saphira.A marble cave is safer than any of the other places we’ve
stayed.

Perhaps . . . Do you think Murtagh will be all right?

Ajihad strikes me as an honorable man. Unless Murtagh tries to escape, I doubt he will
be harmed.

Eragon crossed his arms, unwilling to talk further. He was dazed by the change in
circumstances from the day before. Their mad race from Gil’ead was finally over, but his
body expected to continue running and riding. “Where are our horses?”

“In the stables by the gate. We can visit them before leaving Tronjheim.”

They exited Tronjheim through the same gate they had entered. The gold griffins
gleamed with colored highlights garnered from scores of lanterns. The sun had moved
during Eragon’s talk with Ajihad—light no longer entered Farthen Dûr through the crater
opening. Without those moted rays, the inside of the hollow mountain was velvety black.
The only illumination came from Tronjheim, which sparkled brilliantly in the gloom. The
city-mountain’s radiance was enough to brighten the ground hundreds of feet away.

Orik pointed at Tronjheim’s white pinnacle. “Fresh meat and pure mountain water await
you up there,” he told Saphira. “You may stay in any of the caves. Once you make your
choice, bedding will be laid down in it and then no one will disturb you.”

“I thought we were going to go together. I don’t want to be separated,” protested Eragon.


Orik turned to him. “Rider Eragon, I will do everything to accommodate you, but it
would be best if Saphira waits in the dragonhold while you eat. The tunnels to the
banquet halls aren’t large enough for her to accompany us.”

“Why can’t you just bring me food in the hold?”

“Because,” said Orik with a guarded expression, “the food is prepared down here, and it
is a long way to the top. If you wish, a servant could be sent up to the hold with a meal
for you. It will take some time, but you could eat with Saphira then.”

He actually means it,Eragon thought, astonished that they would do so much for him. But
the way Orik said it made him wonder if the dwarf was testing him somehow.

I’m weary,said Saphira.And this dragonhold sounds to my liking. Go, have your meal,
then come to me. It will be soothing to rest together without fear of wild animals or
soldiers. We have suffered the hardships of the trail too long.

Eragon looked at her thoughtfully, then said to Orik, “I’ll eat down here.” The dwarf
smiled, seeming satisfied. Eragon unstrapped Saphira’s saddle so she could lie down
without discomfort.Would you take Zar’roc with you?

Yes,she said, gathering up the sword and saddle with her claws.But keep your bow. We
must trust these people, though not to the point of foolishness.

I know,he said, disquieted.

With an explosive leap Saphira swept off the ground and into the still air. The steady
whoosh of her wings was the only sound in the darkness. As she disappeared over the rim
of Tronjheim’s peak, Orik let out a long breath. “Ah boy, you have been blessed indeed. I
find a sudden longing in my heart for open skies and soaring cliffs and the thrill of
hunting like a hawk. Still, my feet are better on the ground—preferably under it.”

He clapped his hands loudly. “I neglect my duties as host. I know you’ve not dined since
that pitiful dinner the Twins saw fit to give you, so come, let’s find the cooks and beg
meat and bread from them!”

Eragon followed the dwarf back into Tronjheim and through a labyrinth of corridors until
they came to a long room filled with rows of stone tables only high enough for dwarves.
Fires blazed in soapstone ovens behind a long counter.

Orik spoke words in an unfamiliar language to a stout ruddy-faced dwarf, who promptly
handed them stone platters piled with steaming mushrooms and fish. Then Orik took
Eragon up several flights of stairs and into a small alcove carved out of Tronjheim’s outer
wall, where they sat cross-legged. Eragon wordlessly reached for his food.


When their platters were empty, Orik sighed with contentment and pulled out a long-
stemmed pipe. He lit it, saying, “A worthy repast, though it needed a good draught of
mead to wash it down properly.”

Eragon surveyed the ground below. “Do you farm in Farthen Dûr?”

“No, there’s only enough sunlight for moss, mushrooms, and mold. Tronjheim cannot
survive without supplies from the surrounding valleys, which is one reason why many of
us choose to live elsewhere in the Beor Mountains.”

“Then there are other dwarf cities?”

“Not as many as we would like. And Tronjheim is the greatest of them.” Leaning on an
elbow, Orik took a deep pull on his pipe. “You have only seen the lower levels, so it
hasn’t been apparent, but most of Tronjheim is deserted. The farther up you go, the
emptier it gets. Entire floors have remained untouched for centuries. Most dwarves prefer
to dwell under Tronjheim and Farthen Dûr in the caverns and passageways that riddle the
rock. Through the centuries we have tunneled extensively under the Beor Mountains. It is
possible to walk from one end of the mountain range to the other without ever setting foot
on the surface.”

“It seems like a waste to have all that unused space in Tronjheim,” commented Eragon.

Orik nodded. “Some have argued for abandoning this place because of its drain on our
resources, but Tronjheim does perform one invaluable task.”

“What’s that?”

“In times of misfortune it can house our entire nation. There have been only three
instances in our history when we have been forced to that extreme, but each time it has
saved us from certain and utter destruction. That is why we always keep it garrisoned,
ready for use.”

“I’ve never seen anything as magnificent,” admitted Eragon.

Orik smiled around his pipe. “I’m glad you find it so. It took generations to build
Tronjheim—and our lives are much longer than those of men. Unfortunately, because of
the cursed Empire, few outsiders are allowed to see its glory.”

“How many Varden are here?”

“Dwarves or humans?”

“Humans—I want to know how many have fled the Empire.”


Orik exhaled a long puff of smoke that coiled lazily around his head. “There are about
four thousand of your kin here. But that’s a poor indicator of what you want to know.
Only people who wish to fight come here. The rest of them are under King Orrin’s
protection in Surda.”

So few?thought Eragon with a sinking feeling. The royal army alone numbered nearly
sixteen thousand when it was fully marshaled, not counting the Urgals. “Why doesn’t
Orrin fight the Empire himself?” he asked.

“If he were to show open hostility,” said Orik, “Galbatorix would crush him. As it is,
Galbatorix withholds that destruction because he considers Surda a minor threat, which is
a mistake. It’s through Orrin’s assistance that the Varden have most of their weapons and
supplies. Without him, there would be no resisting the Empire.

“Don’t despair over the number of humans in Tronjheim. There are many dwarves here—
many more than you have seen—and all will fight when the time comes. Orrin has also
promised us troops for when we battle Galbatorix. The elves pledged their help as well.”

Eragon absently touched Saphira’s mind and found her busy eating a bloody haunch with
gusto. He noticed once more the hammer and stars engraved on Orik’s helm. “What does
that mean? I saw it on the floor in Tronjheim.”

Orik lifted the iron-bound cap off his head and brushed a rough finger over the engraving.
“It is the symbol of my clan. We are the Ingietum, metalworkers and master smiths. The
hammer and stars are inlaid into Tronjheim’s floor because it was the personal crest of
Korgan, our founder. One clan to rule, with twelve surrounding. King Hrothgar is
Dûrgrimst Ingietum as well and has brought my house much glory, much honor.”

When they returned the platters to the cook, they passed a dwarf in the hall. He stopped
before Eragon, bowed, and said respectfully, “Argetlam.”

The dwarf left Eragon fumbling for an answer, flushed with unease, yet also strangely
pleased with the gesture. No one had bowed to him before. “What did he say?” he asked,
leaning closer to Orik.

Orik shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s an elven word that was used to refer to the Riders. It
means ‘silver hand.’ ” Eragon glanced at his gloved hand, thinking of the gedwëy ignasia
that whitened his palm. “Do you wish to return to Saphira?”

“Is there somewhere I could bathe first? I haven’t been able to wash off the grime of the
road for a long time. Also, my shirt is bloodstained and torn, and it stinks. I’d like to
replace it, but I don’t have any money to buy a new one. Is there a way I could work for
one?”


“Do you seek to insult Hrothgar’s hospitality, Eragon?” demanded Orik. “As long as you
are in Tronjheim, you won’t have to buy a thing. You’ll pay for it in other ways—Ajihad
and Hrothgar will see to that. Come. I’ll show you where to wash, then fetch you a shirt.”

He took Eragon down a long staircase until they were well below Tronjheim. The
corridors were tunnels now—which cramped Eragon because they were only five feet
high—and all the lanterns were red. “So the light doesn’t blind you when you leave or
enter a dark cavern,” explained Orik.

They entered a bare room with a small door on the far side. Orik pointed. “The pools are
through there, along with brushes and soap. Leave your clothes here. I’ll have new ones
waiting when you get out.”

Eragon thanked him and started to undress. It felt oppressive being alone underground,
especially with the low rock ceiling. He stripped quickly and, cold, hurried through the
door, into total darkness. He inched forward until his foot touched warm water, then
eased himself into it.

The pool was mildly salty, but soothing and calm. For a moment he was afraid of drifting
away from the door, into deeper water, but as he waded forward, he discovered the water
reached only to his waist. He groped over a slippery wall until he found the soap and
brushes, then scrubbed himself. Afterward he floated with his eyes closed, enjoying the
warmth.

When he emerged, dripping, into the lighted room, he found a towel, a fine linen shirt,
and a pair of breeches. The clothes fit him reasonably well. Satisfied, he went out into the
tunnel.

Orik was waiting for him, pipe in hand. They climbed the stairs back up into Tronjheim,
then exited the city-mountain. Eragon gazed at Tronjheim’s peak and called Saphira with
his mind. As she flew down from the dragonhold, he asked, “How do you communicate
with people at the top of Tronjheim?”

Orik chuckled. “That’s a problem we solved long ago. You didn’t notice, but behind the
open arches that line each level is a single, unbroken staircase that spirals around the wall
of Tronjheim’s central chamber. The stairs climb all the way to the dragonhold above
Isidar Mithrim. We call it Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. Running up or down it isn’t
swift enough for an emergency, nor convenient enough for casual use. Instead, we use
flashing lanterns to convey messages. There is another way too, though it is seldom used.
When Vol Turin was constructed, a polished trough was cut next to it. The trough acts as
a giant slide as high as a mountain.”

Eragon’s lips twitched with a smile. “Is it dangerous?”


“Do not think of trying it. The slide was built for dwarves and is too narrow for a man. If
you slipped out of it, you could be thrown onto the stairs and against the arches, perhaps
even into empty space.”

Saphira landed a spear’s throw away, her scales rustling dryly. As she greeted Eragon,
humans and dwarves trickled out of Tronjheim, gathering around her with murmurs of
interest. Eragon regarded the growing crowd uneasily. “You’d better go,” said Orik,
pushing him forward. “Meet me by this gate tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting.”

Eragon balked. “How will I know when it’s morning?”

“I’ll have someone wake you. Now go!” Without further protest, Eragon slipped through
the jostling group that surrounded Saphira and jumped onto her back.

Before she could take off, an old woman stepped forward and grasped Eragon’s foot with
a fierce grip. He tried to pull away, but her hand was like an iron talon around his ankle—
he could not break her tenacious hold. The burning gray eyes she fixed on him were
surrounded by a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles—the skin was folded in long creases down
her sunken cheeks. A tattered bundle rested in the crook of her left arm.

Frightened, Eragon asked, “What do you want?”

The woman tilted her arm, and a cloth fell from the bundle, revealing a baby’s face.
Hoarse and desperate, she said, “The child has no parents—there is no one to care for her
but me, and I am weak. Bless her with your power, Argetlam. Bless her for luck!”

Eragon looked to Orik for help, but the dwarf only watched with a guarded expression.
The small crowd fell silent, waiting for his response. The woman’s eyes were still
fastened on him. “Bless her, Argetlam, bless her,” she insisted.

Eragon had never blessed anyone. It was not something done lightly in Alagaësia, as a
blessing could easily go awry and prove to be more curse than boon—especially if it was
spoken with ill intent or lack of conviction.Do I dare take that responsibility? he
wondered.

“Bless her, Argetlam, bless her.”

Suddenly decided, he searched for a phrase or expression to use. Nothing came to mind
until, inspired, he thought of the ancient language. This would be a true blessing, spoken
with words of power, by one of power.

He bent down and tugged the glove off his right hand. Laying his palm on the babe’s
brow, he intoned, “Atra gülai un ilian tauthr ono un atra ono waíse skölir frá rauthr.” The
words left him unexpectedly weak, as if he had used magic. He slowly pulled the glove
back on and said to the woman, “That is all I can do for her. If any words have the power
to forestall tragedy, it will be those.”


“Thank you, Argetlam,” she whispered, bowing slightly. She started to cover the baby
again, but Saphira snorted and twisted until her head loomed over the child. The woman
grew rigid; her breath caught in her chest. Saphira lowered her snout and brushed the
baby between the eyes with the tip of her nose, then smoothly lifted away.

A gasp ran through the crowd, for on the child’s forehead, where Saphira had touched
her, was a star-shaped patch of skin as white and silvery as Eragon’s gedwëy ignasia. The
woman stared at Saphira with a feverish gaze, wordless thanks in her eyes.

Immediately Saphira took flight, battering the awestruck spectators with the wind from
her powerful wing strokes. As the ground dwindled away, Eragon took a deep breath and
hugged her neck tightly.What did you do? he asked softly.

I gave her hope. And you gave her a future.

Loneliness suddenly flowered within Eragon, despite Saphira’s presence. Their
surroundings were so foreign—it struck him for the first time exactly how far he was
from home. A destroyed home, but still where his heart lay.What have I become,
Saphira? he asked.I’m only in the first year of manhood, yet I’ve consulted with the
leader of the Varden, am pursued by Galbatorix, and have traveled with Morzan’s son—
and now blessings are sought from me! What wisdom can I give people that they haven’t
already learned? What feats can I achieve that an army couldn’t do better? It’s insanity!
I should be back in Carvahall with Roran.

Saphira took a long time to answer, but her words were gentle when they came.A
hatchling, that is what you are. A hatchling struggling into the world. I may be younger
than you in years, but I am ancient in my thoughts. Do not worry about these things. Find
peace in where and what you are. People often know what must be done. All you need do
is show them the way—that is wisdom. As for feats, no army could have given the
blessing you did.

But it was nothing,he protested.A trifle.

Nay, it wasn’t. What you saw was the beginning of another story, another legend. Do you
think that child will ever be content to be a tavern keeper or a farmer when her brow is
dragon-marked and your words hang over her? You underestimate our power and that of
fate.

Eragon bowed his head.It’s overwhelming. I feel as if I am living in an illusion, a dream
where all things are possible. Amazing things do happen, I know, but always to someone
else, always in some far-off place and time. But I found your egg, was tutored by a Rider,
and dueled a Shade—those can’t be the actions of the farm boy I am, or was. Something
is changing me.


It is your wyrd that shapes you,said Saphira.Every age needs an icon—perhaps that lot
has fallen to you. Farm boys are not named for the first Rider without cause. Your
namesake was the beginning, and now you are the continuation. Or the end.

Ach,said Eragon, shaking his head.It’s like speaking in riddles. . . . But if all is
foreordained, do our choices mean anything? Or must we just learn to accept our fate?

Saphira said firmly,Eragon, I chose you from within my egg. You have been given a
chance most would die for. Are you unhappy with that? Clear your mind of such
thoughts. They cannot be answered and will make you no happier.

True,he said glumly.All the same, they continue to bounce around within my skull.

Things have been . . . unsettled . . . ever since Brom died. It has made me
uneasy,acknowledged Saphira, which surprised him because she rarely seemed perturbed.
They were above Tronjheim now. Eragon looked down through the opening in its peak
and saw the floor of the dragonhold: Isidar Mithrim, the great star sapphire. He knew that
beneath it was nothing but Tronjheim’s great central chamber. Saphira descended to the
dragonhold on silent wings. She slipped over its rim and dropped to Isidar Mithrim,
landing with the sharp clack of claws.

Won’t you scratch it?asked Eragon.

I think not. It’s no ordinary gem.Eragon slid off her back and slowly turned in a circle,
absorbing the unusual sight. They were in a round roofless room sixty feet high and sixty
feet across. The walls were lined with the dark openings of caves, which differed in size
from grottoes no larger than a man to a gaping cavern larger than a house. Shiny rungs
were set into the marble walls so that people could reach the highest caves. An enormous
archway led out of the dragonhold.

Eragon examined the great gem under his feet and impulsively lay down on it. He pressed
his cheek against the cool sapphire, trying to see through it. Distorted lines and wavering
spots of color glimmered through the stone, but its thickness made it impossible to
discern anything clearly on the floor of the chamber a mile below them.

Will I have to sleep apart from you?

Saphira shook her enormous head.No, there is a bed for you in my cave. Come see. She
turned and, without opening her wings, jumped twenty feet into the air, landing in a
medium-sized cave. He clambered up after her.

The cave was dark brown on the inside and deeper than he had expected. The roughly
chiseled walls gave the impression of a natural formation. Near the far wall was a thick
cushion large enough for Saphira to curl up on. Beside it was a bed built into the side of
the wall. The cave was lit by a single red lantern equipped with a shutter so its glow
could be muted.


I like this,said Eragon.It feels safe.

Yes.Saphira curled up on the cushion, watching him. With a sigh he sank onto the
mattress, weariness seeping through him.

Saphira, you haven’t said much while we’ve been here. What do you think of Tronjheim
and Ajihad?

We shall see. . . . It seems, Eragon, that we are embroiled in a new type of warfare here.
Swords and claws are useless, but words and alliances may have the same effect. The
Twins dislike us—we should be on our guard for any duplicities they might attempt. Not
many of the dwarves trust us. The elves didn’t want a human Rider, so there will be
opposition from them as well. The best thing we can do is identify those in power and
befriend them. And quickly, too.

Do you think it’s possible to remain independent of the different leaders?

She shuffled her wings into a more comfortable position.Ajihad supports our freedom,
but we may be unable to survive without pledging our loyalty to one group or another.
We’ll soon know either way.

MANDRAKEROOTANDNEWT’STONGUE

The blankets were bunched underneath Eragon when he woke, but he was still warm.
Saphira was asleep on her cushion, her breath coming in steady gusts.

For the first time since entering Farthen Dûr, Eragon felt secure and hopeful. He was
warm and fed and had been able to sleep as long as he liked. Tension unknotted inside
him—tension that had been accumulating since Brom’s death and, even before, since
leaving Palancar Valley.

I don’t have to be afraid anymore. But what about Murtagh?No matter the Varden’s
hospitality, Eragon could not accept it in good conscience, knowing that—intentionally
or not—he had led Murtagh to his imprisonment. Somehow the situation had to be
resolved.

His gaze roamed the cave’s rough ceiling as he thought of Arya. Chiding himself for
daydreaming, he tilted his head and looked out at the dragonhold. A large cat sat on the
edge of the cave, licking a paw. It glanced at him, and he saw a flash of slanted red eyes.

Solembum?he asked incredulously.

Obviously.The werecat shook his rough mane and yawned languorously, displaying his
long fangs. He stretched, then jumped out of the cave, landing with a solid thump on
Isidar Mithrim, twenty feet below.Coming?


Eragon looked at Saphira. She was awake now, watching him motionlessly.Go. I will be
fine, she murmured. Solembum was waiting for him under the arch that led to the rest of
Tronjheim.

The moment Eragon’s feet touched Isidar Mithrim, the werecat turned with a flick of his
paws and disappeared through the arch. Eragon chased after him, rubbing the sleep from
his face. He stepped through the archway and found himself standing at the top of Vol
Turin, The Endless Staircase. There was nowhere else to go, so he descended to the next
level.

He stood in an open arcade that curved gently to the left and encircled Tronjheim’s
central chamber. Between the slender columns supporting the arches, Eragon could see
Isidar Mithrim sparkling brilliantly above him, as well as the city-mountain’s distant
base. The circumference of the central chamber increased with each successive level. The
staircase cut through the arcade’s floor to an identical level below and descended through
scores of arcades until it disappeared in the distance. The sliding trough ran along the
outside curve of the stairs. At the top of Vol Turin was a pile of leather squares to slide
on. To Eragon’s right, a dusty corridor led to that level’s rooms and apartments.
Solembum padded down the hall, flipping his tail.

Wait,said Eragon.

He tried to catch up with Solembum, but glimpsed him only fleetingly in the abandoned
passageways. Then, as Eragon rounded a corner, he saw the werecat stop before a door
and yowl. Seemingly of its own accord, the door slid inward. Solembum slipped inside,
then the door shut. Eragon halted in front of it, perplexed. He raised his hand to knock,
but before he did, the door opened once more, and warm light spilled out. After a
moment’s indecision he stepped inside.

He entered an earthy two-room suite, lavishly decorated with carved wood and clinging
plants. The air was warm, fresh, and humid. Bright lanterns hung on the walls and from
the low ceiling. Piles of intriguing items cluttered the floor, obscuring the corners. A
large four-poster bed, curtained by even more plants, was in the far room.

In the center of the main room, on a plush leather chair, sat the fortuneteller and witch,
Angela. She smiled brightly.

“What are you doing here?” blurted Eragon.

Angela folded her hands in her lap. “Well, why don’t you sit on the floor and I’ll tell
you? I’d offer you a chair, but I’m sitting on the only one.” Questions buzzed through
Eragon’s mind as he settled between two flasks of acrid bubbling green potions.

“So!” exclaimed Angela, leaning forward. “Youare a Rider. I suspected as much, but I
didn’t know for certain until yesterday. I’m sure Solembum knew, but he never told me. I


should have figured it out the moment you mentioned Brom. Saphira . . . I like the
name—fitting for a dragon.”

“Brom’s dead,” said Eragon abruptly. “The Ra’zac killed him.”

Angela was taken aback. She twirled a lock of her dense curls. “I’m sorry. I truly am,”
she said softly.

Eragon smiled bitterly. “But not surprised, are you? You foretold his death, after all.”

“I didn’t know whose death it would be,” she said, shaking her head. “But no . . . I’m not
surprised. I met Brom once or twice. He didn’t care for my ‘frivolous’ attitude toward
magic. It irritated him.”

Eragon frowned. “In Teirm you laughed at his fate and said that it was something of a
joke. Why?”

Angela’s face tightened momentarily. “In retrospect, it was in rather bad taste, but I
didn’t know what would befall him. How do I put this? . . . Brom was cursed in a way. It
was his wyrd to fail at all of his tasks except one, although through no fault of his own.
He was chosen as a Rider, but his dragon was killed. He loved a woman, but it was his
affection that was her undoing. And he was chosen, I assume, to guard and train you, but
in the end he failed at that as well. The only thing he succeeded at was killing Morzan,
and a better deed he couldn’t have done.”

“Brom never mentioned a woman to me,” retorted Eragon.

Angela shrugged carelessly. “I heard it from one who couldn’t have lied. But enough of
this talk! Life goes on, and we should not trouble the dead with our worries.” She
scooped a pile of reeds from the floor and deftly started plaiting them together, closing
the subject to discussion.

Eragon hesitated, then gave in. “All right. So why are you in Tronjheim instead of
Teirm?”

“Ah, at last an interesting question,” said Angela. “After hearing Brom’s name again
during your visit, I sensed a return of the past in Alagaësia. People were whispering that
the Empire was hunting a Rider. I knew then that the Varden’s dragon egg must have
hatched, so I closed my shop and set out to learn more.”

“You knew about the egg?”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. I’ve been around much longer than you would believe.
Very little happens that I don’t know about.” She paused and concentrated on her
weaving. “Anyway, I knew I had to get to the Varden as fast as possible. I’ve been here
for nearly a month now, though I really don’t care for this place—it’s far too musty for


my taste. And everyone in Farthen Dûr isso serious and noble. They’re probably all
doomed to tragic deaths anyway.” She gave a long sigh, a mocking expression on her
face. “And the dwarves are just a superstitious bunch of ninnies content to hammer rocks
all their lives. The only redeeming aspect of this place is all the mushrooms and fungi
that grow inside Farthen Dûr.”

“Then why stay?” asked Eragon, smiling.

“Because I like to be wherever important events are occurring,” said Angela, cocking her
head. “Besides, if I had stayed in Teirm, Solembum would have left without me, and I
enjoy his company. But tell me, what adventures have befallen you since last we talked?”

For the next hour, Eragon summarized his experiences of the last two and a half months.
Angela listened quietly, but when he mentioned Murtagh’s name she sputtered,
“Murtagh!”

Eragon nodded. “He told me who he is. But let me finish my story before you make any
judgments.” He continued with his tale. When it was complete, Angela leaned back in her
chair thoughtfully, her reeds forgotten. Without warning, Solembum jumped out of a
hiding place and landed in her lap. He curled up, eyeing Eragon haughtily.

Angela petted the werecat. “Fascinating. Galbatorix allied with the Urgals, and Murtagh
finally out in the open. . . . I’d warn you to be careful with Murtagh, but you’re obviously
aware of the danger.”

“Murtagh has been a steadfast friend and an unwavering ally,” said Eragon firmly.

“All the same, be careful.” Angela paused, then said distastefully, “And then there’s the
matter of this Shade, Durza. I think he’s the greatest threat to the Varden right now, aside
from Galbatorix. Iloathe Shades—they practice the most unholy magic, after
necromancy. I’d like to dig his heart out with a dull hairpin and feed it to a pig!”

Eragon was startled by her sudden vehemence. “I don’t understand. Brom told me that
Shades were sorcerers who used spirits to accomplish their will, but why does that make
them so evil?”

Angela shook her head. “It doesn’t. Ordinary sorcerers are just that, ordinary—neither
better nor worse than the rest of us. They use their magical strength to control spirits and
the spirits’ powers. Shades, however, relinquish that control in their search for greater
power and allow their bodies to be controlledby spirits. Unfortunately, only the evilest
spirits seek to possess humans, and once ensconced they never leave. Such possession
can happen by accident if a sorcerer summons a spirit stronger than himself. The problem
is, once a Shade is created, it’s terribly difficult to kill. As I’m sure you know, only two
people, Laetri the Elf and Irnstad the Rider, ever survived that feat.”


“I’ve heard the stories.” Eragon gestured at the room. “Why are you living so high up in
Tronjheim? Isn’t it inconvenient being this isolated? And how did you get all this stuff up
here?”

Angela threw back her head and laughed wryly. “Truthfully? I’m in hiding. When I first
came to Tronjheim, I had a few days of peace—until one of guards who let me into
Farthen Dûr blabbed about who I was. Then all the magic users here, though theybarely
rate the term, pestered me to join their secret group. Especially those drajl Twins who
control it. Finally, I threatened to turn the lot of them into toads, excuse me, frogs, but
when that didn’t deter them, I sneaked up here in the middle of the night. It was less work
than you might imagine, especially for one with my skills.”

“Did you have to let the Twins into your mind before you were allowed into Farthen
Dûr?” asked Eragon. “I was forced to let them sift through my memories.”

A cold gleam leapt into Angela’s eye. “The Twins wouldn’t dare probe me, for fear of
what I might do to them. Oh, they’d love to, but they know the effort would leave them
broken and gibbering nonsense. I’ve been coming here long before the Varden began
examining people’s minds . . . and they’re not about to start on me now.”

She peered into the other room and said, “Well! This has been an enlightening talk, but
I’m afraid you have to go now. My brew of mandrake root and newt’s tongue is about to
boil, and it needs attending. Do come back again when you have the time. Andplease
don’t tell anyone that I’m here. I’d hate to have to move again. It would make me very . .
.irritated. And you don’t want to see me irritated!”

“I’ll keep your secret,” assured Eragon, getting up.

Solembum jumped off Angela’s lap as she stood. “Good!” she exclaimed.

Eragon said farewell and left the room. Solembum guided him back to the dragonhold,
then dismissed him with a twitch of his tail before sauntering away.

HALL OF THE
MOUNTAINKING

Adwarf was waiting for Eragon in the dragonhold. After bowing and muttering,
“Argetlam,” the dwarf said with a thick accent, “Good. Awake. Knurla Orik waits for
you.” He bowed again and scurried away. Saphira jumped out of her cave, landing next to
Eragon. Zar’roc was in her claws.

What’s that for?he asked, frowning.


She tilted her head.Wear it. You are a Rider and should bear a Rider’s sword. Zar’roc
may have a bloody history, but that should not shape your actions. Forge a new history
for it, and carry it with pride.

Are you sure?Remember Ajihad’s counsel.

Saphira snorted, and a puff of smoke rose from her nostrils.Wear it, Eragon. If you wish
to remain above the forces here, do not let anyone’s disapproval dictate your actions.

As you wish,he said reluctantly, buckling on the sword. He clambered onto her back, and
Saphira flew out of Tronjheim. There was enough light in Farthen Dûr now that the hazy
mass of the crater walls—five miles away in each direction—was visible. While they
spiraled down to the city-mountain’s base, Eragon told Saphira about his meeting with
Angela.

As soon as they landed by one of Tronjheim’s gates, Orik ran to Saphira’s side. “My
king, Hrothgar, wishes to see both of you. Dismount quickly. We must hurry.”

Eragon trotted after the dwarf into Tronjheim. Saphira easily kept pace beside them.
Ignoring stares from people within the soaring corridor, Eragon asked, “Where will we
meet Hrothgar?”

Without slowing, Orik said, “In the throne room beneath the city. It will be a private
audience as an act of otho—of ‘faith.’ You do not have to address him in any special
manner, but speak to him respectfully. Hrothgar is quick to anger, but he is wise and sees
keenly into the minds of men, so think carefully before you speak.”

Once they entered Tronjheim’s central chamber, Orik led the way to one of the two
descending stairways that flanked the opposite hall. They started down the right-hand
staircase, which gently curved inward until it faced the direction they had come from.
The other stairway merged with theirs to form a broad cascade of dimly lit steps that
ended, after a hundred feet, before two granite doors. A seven-pointed crown was carved
across both doors.

Seven dwarves stood guard on each side of the portal. They held burnished mattocks and
wore gem-encrusted belts. As Eragon, Orik, and Saphira approached, the dwarves
pounded the floor with the mattocks’ hafts. A deep boom rolled back up the stairs. The
doors swung inward.

A dark hall lay before them, a good bowshot long. The throne room was a natural cave;
the walls were lined with stalagmites and stalactites, each thicker than a man. Sparsely
hung lanterns cast a moody light. The brown floor was smooth and polished. At the far
end of the hall was a black throne with a motionless figure upon it.


Orik bowed. “The king awaits you.” Eragon put his hand on Saphira’s side, and the two
of them continued forward. The doors closed behind them, leaving them alone in the dim
throne room with the king.

Their footsteps echoed through the hall as they advanced toward the throne. In the
recesses between the stalagmites and stalactites rested large statues. Each sculpture
depicted a dwarf king crowned and sitting on a throne; their sightless eyes gazed sternly
into the distance, their lined faces set in fierce expressions. A name was chiseled in runes
beneath each set of feet.

Eragon and Saphira strode solemnly between the two rows of long-dead monarchs. They
passed more than forty statues, then only dark and empty alcoves awaiting future kings.
They stopped before Hrothgar at the end of the hall.

The dwarf king himself sat like a statue upon a raised throne carved from a single piece
of black marble. It was blocky, unadorned, and cut with unyielding precision. Strength
emanated from the throne, strength that harked back to ancient times when dwarves had
ruled in Alagaësia without opposition from elves or humans. A gold helm lined with
rubies and diamonds rested on Hrothgar’s head in place of a crown. His visage was grim,
weathered, and hewn of many years’ experience. Beneath a craggy brow glinted deep-set
eyes, flinty and piercing. Over his powerful chest rippled a shirt of mail. His white beard
was tucked under his belt, and in his lap he held a mighty war hammer with the symbol
of Orik’s clan embossed on its head.

Eragon bowed awkwardly and knelt. Saphira remained upright. The king stirred, as if
awakening from a long sleep, and rumbled, “Rise, Rider, you need not pay tribute to me.”

Straightening, Eragon met Hrothgar’s impenetrable eyes. The king inspected him with a
hard gaze, then said gutturally, “Âz knurl deimi lanok.‘Beware, the rock changes’—an
old dictum of ours. . . . And nowadays the rock changes very fast indeed.” He fingered
the war hammer. “I could not meet with you earlier, as Ajihad did, because I was forced
to deal with my enemies within the clans. They demanded that I deny you sanctuary and
expel you from Farthen Dûr. It has taken much work on my part to convince them
otherwise.”

“Thank you,” said Eragon. “I didn’t anticipate how much strife my arrival would cause.”

The king accepted his thanks, then lifted a gnarled hand and pointed. “See there, Rider
Eragon, where my predecessors sit upon their graven thrones. One and forty there are,
with I the forty-second. When I pass from this world into the care of the gods, my hírna
will be added to their ranks. The first statue is the likeness of my ancestor Korgan, who
forged this mace, Volund. For eight millennia—since the dawn of our race—dwarves
have ruled under Farthen Dûr. We are the bones of the land, older than both the fair elves
and the savage dragons.” Saphira shifted slightly.


Hrothgar leaned forward, his voice gravelly and deep. “I am old, human—even by our
reckoning—old enough to have seen the Riders in all their fleeting glory, old enough to
have spoken with their last leader, Vrael, who paid tribute to me within these very walls.
Few are still alive who can claim that much. I remember the Riders and how they
meddled in our affairs. I also remember the peace they kept that made it possible to walk
unharmed from Tronjheim to Narda.

“And now you stand before me—a lost tradition revived. Tell me, and speak truly in this,
why have you come to Farthen Dûr? I know of the events that made you flee the Empire,
but what is your intent now?”

“For now, Saphira and I merely want to recuperate in Tronjheim,” Eragon replied. “We
are not here to cause trouble, only to find sanctuary from the dangers we’ve faced for
many months. Ajihad may send us to the elves, but until he does, we have no wish to
leave.”

“Then was it only the desire for safety that drove you?” asked Hrothgar. “Do you just
seek to live here and forget your troubles with the Empire?”

Eragon shook his head, his pride rejecting that statement. “If Ajihad told you of my past,
you should know that I have grievances enough to fight the Empire until it is nothing but
scattered ashes. More than that, though . . . I want to aid those who cannot escape
Galbatorix, including my cousin. I have the strength to help, so I must.”

The king seemed satisfied by his answer. He turned to Saphira and asked, “Dragon, what
think you in this matter? For what reason have you come?”

Saphira lifted the edge of her lip to growl.Tell him that I thirst for the blood of our
enemies and eagerly await the day when we ride to battle against Galbatorix. I’ve no
love or mercy for traitors and egg breakers like that false king. He held me for over a
century and, even now, still has two of my brethren, whom I would free if possible. And
tell Hrothgar I think you ready for this task.

Eragon grimaced at her words, but dutifully relayed them. The corner of Hrothgar’s
mouth lifted in a hint of grim amusement, deepening his wrinkles. “I see that dragons
have not changed with the centuries.” He rapped the throne with a knuckle. “Do you
know why this seat was quarried so flat and angular? So that no one would sit
comfortably on it. I have not, and will relinquish it without regret when my time comes.
What is there to remind you of your obligations, Eragon? If the Empire falls, will you
take Galbatorix’s place and claim his kingship?”

“I don’t seek to wear the crown or rule,” said Eragon, troubled. “Being a Rider is
responsibility enough. No, I would not take the throne in Urû’baen . . . not unless there
was no one else willing or competent enough to take it.”


Hrothgar warned gravely, “Certainly you would be a kinder king than Galbatorix, but no
race should have a leader who does not age or leave the throne. The time of the Riders
has passed, Eragon. They will never rise again—not even if Galbatorix’s other eggs were
to hatch.”

A shadow crossed his face as he gazed at Eragon’s side. “I see that you carry an enemy’s
sword; I was told of this, and that you travel with a son of the Forsworn. It does not
please me to see this weapon.” He extended a hand. “I would like to examine it.”

Eragon drew Zar’roc and presented it to the king, hilt first. Hrothgar grasped the sword
and ran a practiced eye over the red blade. The edge caught the lantern light, reflecting it
sharply. The dwarf king tested the point with his palm, then said, “A masterfully forged
blade. Elves rarely choose to make swords—they prefer bows and spears—but when they
do, the results are unmatched. This is an ill-fated blade; I am not glad to see it within my
realm. But carry it if you will; perhaps its luck has changed.” He returned Zar’roc, and
Eragon sheathed it. “Has my nephew proved helpful during your time here?”

“Who?”

Hrothgar raised a tangled eyebrow. “Orik, my youngest sister’s son. He’s been serving
under Ajihad to show my support for the Varden. It seems that he has been returned to
my command, however. I was gratified to hear that you defended him with your words.”

Eragon understood that this was another sign of otho, of “faith,” on Hrothgar’s part. “I
couldn’t ask for a better guide.”

“That is good,” said the king, clearly pleased. “Unfortunately, I cannot speak with you
much longer. My advisors wait for me, as there are matters I must deal with. I will say
this, though: If you wish the support of the dwarves within my realm, you must first
prove yourself to them. We have long memories and do not rush to hasty decisions.
Words will decide nothing, only deeds.”

“I will keep that in mind,” said Eragon, bowing again.

Hrothgar nodded regally. “You may go, then.”

Eragon turned with Saphira, and they proceeded out of the hall of the mountain king.
Orik was waiting for them on the other side of the stone doors, an anxious expression on
his face. He fell in with them as they climbed back up to Tronjheim’s main chamber.
“Did all go well? Were you received favorably?”

“I think so. But your king is cautious,” said Eragon.

“That is how he has survived this long.”

I would not want Hrothgar angry at us,observed Saphira.


Eragon glanced at her.No, I wouldn’t either. I’m not sure what he thought of you—he
seems to disapprove of dragons, though he didn’t say it outright.

That seemed to amuse Saphira.In that he is wise, especially since he’s barely knee-high to
me.

In Tronjheim’s center, under the sparkling Isidar Mithrim, Orik said, “Your blessing
yesterday has stirred up the Varden like an overturned beehive. The child Saphira
touched has been hailed as a future hero. She and her guardian have been quartered in the
finest rooms. Everyone is talking about your ‘miracle.’ All the human mothers seem
intent on finding you and getting the same for their children.”

Alarmed, Eragon furtively looked around. “What should we do?”

“Aside from taking back your actions?” asked Orik dryly. “Stay out of sight as much as
possible. Everyone will be kept out of the dragonhold, so you won’t be disturbed there.”

Eragon did not want to return to the dragonhold yet. It was early in the day, and he
wanted to explore Tronjheim with Saphira. Now that they were out of the Empire, there
was no reason for them to be apart. But he wanted to avoid attention, which would be
impossible with her at his side.Saphira, what do you want to do?

She nosed him, scales brushing his arm.I’ll return to the dragonhold. There’s someone
there I want to meet. Wander around as long as you like.

All right,he said,but who do you want to meet? Saphira only winked a large eye at him
before padding down one of Tronjheim’s four main tunnels.

Eragon explained to Orik where she was going, then said, “I’d like some breakfast. And
then I’d like to see more of Tronjheim; it’s such an incredible place. I don’t want to go to
the training grounds until tomorrow, as I’m still not fully recovered.”

Orik nodded, his beard bobbing on his chest. “In that case, would you like to visit
Tronjheim’s library? It’s quite old and contains many scrolls of great value. You might
find it interesting to read a history of Alagaësia that hasn’t been tainted by Galbatorix’s
hand.”

With a pang, Eragon remembered how Brom had taught him to read. He wondered if he
still had the skill. A long time had passed since he had seen any written words. “Yes, let’s
do that.”

“Very well.”

After they ate, Orik guided Eragon through myriad corridors to their destination. When
they reached the library’s carved arch, Eragon stepped through it reverently.


The room reminded him of a forest. Rows of graceful colonnades branched up to the
dark, ribbed ceiling five stories above. Between the pillars, black-marble bookcases stood
back to back. Racks of scrolls covered the walls, interspersed with narrow walkways
reached by three twisting staircases. Placed at regular intervals around the walls were
pairs of facing stone benches. Between them were small tables whose bases flowed
seamlessly into the floor.

Countless books and scrolls were stored in the room. “This is the true legacy of our race,”
said Orik. “Here reside the writings of our greatest kings and scholars, from antiquity to
the present. Also recorded are the songs and stories composed by our artisans. This
library may be our most precious possession. It isn’t all our work, though—there are
human writings here as well. Yours is a short-lived—but prolific—race. We have little or
nothing of the elves’. They guard their secrets jealously.”

“How long may I stay?” asked Eragon, moving toward the shelves.

“As long as you want. Come to me if you have any questions.”

Eragon browsed through the volumes with delight, reaching eagerly for those with
interesting titles or covers. Surprisingly, dwarves used the same runes to write as humans.
He was somewhat disheartened by how hard reading was after months of neglect. He
skipped from book to book, slowly working his way deep into the vast library. Eventually
he became immersed in a translation of poems by Dóndar, the tenth dwarf king.

As he scanned the graceful lines, unfamiliar footsteps approached from behind the
bookcase. The sound startled him, but he berated himself for being silly—he could not be
the only person in the library. Even so, he quietly replaced the book and slipped away,
senses alert for danger. He had been ambushed too many times to ignore such feelings.
He heard the footsteps again; only now there were two sets of them. Apprehensive, he
darted across an opening, trying to remember exactly where Orik was sitting. He
sidestepped around a corner and started as he found himself face to face with the Twins.

The Twins stood together, their shoulders meeting, a blank expression on their smooth
faces. Their black snake eyes bored into him. Their hands, hidden within the folds of their
purple robes, twitched slightly. They both bowed, but the movement was insolent and
derisive.

“We have been searching for you,” one said. His voice was uncomfortably like the
Ra’zac’s.

Eragon suppressed a shiver. “What for?” He reached out with his mind and contacted
Saphira. She immediately joined thoughts with him.

“Ever since you met with Ajihad, we have wanted to . . . apologize for our actions.” The
words were mocking, but not in a way Eragon could challenge. “We have come to pay
homage to you.” Eragon flushed angrily as they bowed again.


Careful!warned Saphira.

He pushed back his rising temper. He could not afford to be riled by this confrontation.
An idea came to him, and he said with a small smile, “Nay, it is I who pay homage to
you. Without your approval I never could have gained entrance to Farthen Dûr.” He
bowed to them in turn, making the movement as insulting as he could.

There was a flicker of irritation in the Twins’ eyes, but they smiled and said, “We are
honored that one so . . . important . . . as yourself thinks so highly of us. We are in your
debt for your kind words.”

Now it was Eragon’s turn to be irritated. “I will remember that when I’m in need.”

Saphira intruded sharply in his thoughts.You’re overdoing it.Don’t say anything you’ll
regret. They will remember every word they can use against you.

This is difficult enough without you making comments!he snapped. She subsided with an
exasperated grumble.

The Twins moved closer, the hems of their robes brushing softly over the floor. Their
voices became more pleasant. “We have searched for you for another reason as well,
Rider. The few magic users who live in Tronjheim have formed a group. We call
ourselves Du Vrangr Gata, or the—”

“The Wandering Path, I know,” interrupted Eragon, remembering what Angela had said
about it.

“Your knowledge of the ancient language is impressive,” said a Twin smoothly. “As we
were saying, Du Vrangr Gata has heard of your mighty feats, and we have come to
extend an invitation of membership. We would be honored to have one of your stature as
a member. And I suspect that we might be able to assist you as well.”

“How?”

The other Twin said, “The two of us have garnered much experience in magical matters.
We could guide you . . . show you spells we’ve discovered and teach you words of
power. Nothing would gladden us more than if we could assist, in some small way, your
path to glory. No repayment would be necessary, though if you saw fit to share some
scraps of your own knowledge, we would be satisfied.”

Eragon’s face hardened as he realized what they were asking for. “Do you think I’m a
half-wit?” he demanded harshly. “I won’t apprentice myself to you so you can learn the
words Brom taught me! It must have angered you when you couldn’t steal them from my
mind.”


The Twins abruptly dropped their facade of smiles. “We are not to be trifled with, boy!
We are the ones who will test your abilities with magic. And that could bemost
unpleasant. Remember, it only takes one misconceived spell to kill someone. You may be
a Rider, but the two of us are still stronger than you.”

Eragon kept his face expressionless, even as his stomach knotted painfully. “I will
consider your offer, but it may—”

“Then we will expect your answer tomorrow. Make sure that it is the right one.” They
smiled coldly and stalked deeper into the library.

Eragon scowled.I’m not going to join Du Vrangr Gata, no matter what they do.

You should talk to Angela,said Saphira.She’s dealt with the Twins before. Perhaps she
could be there when they test you. That might prevent them from harming you.

That’s a good idea.Eragon wound through the bookcases until he found Orik sitting on a
bench, busily polishing his war ax. “I’d like to return to the dragonhold.”

The dwarf slid the haft of the ax through a leather loop at his belt, then escorted Eragon
to the gate where Saphira waited. People had already gathered around her. Ignoring them,
Eragon scrambled onto Saphira’s back, and they escaped to the sky.

This problem must be resolved quickly. You cannot let the Twins intimidate you,Saphira
said as she landed on Isidar Mithrim.

I know. But I hope we can avoid angering them.They could be dangerous enemies.He
dismounted quickly, keeping a hand on Zar’roc.

So can you. Do you want them as allies?

He shook his head.Not really . . . I’ll tell them tomorrow that I won’t join Du Vrangr
Gata.

Eragon left Saphira in her cave and wandered out of the dragonhold. He wanted to see
Angela, but he didn’t remember how to find her hiding place, and Solembum was not
there to guide him. He roamed the deserted corridors, hoping to meet Angela by chance.

When he grew tired of staring at empty rooms and endless gray walls, he retraced his
footsteps to the hold. As he neared it, he heard someone speaking within the room. He
halted and listened, but the clear voice fell silent.Saphira?Who’s in there?

A female . . . She has an air of command. I’ll distract her while you come in.Eragon
loosened Zar’roc in its sheath.Orik said that intruders would be kept out of the
dragonhold, so who could this be? He steadied his nerves, then stepped into the hold, his
hand on the sword.


A young woman stood in the center of the room, looking curiously at Saphira, who had
stuck her head out of the cave. The woman appeared to be about seventeen years old. The
star sapphire cast a rosy light on her, accentuating skin the same deep shade as Ajihad’s.
Her velvet dress was wine red and elegantly cut. A jeweled dagger, worn with use, hung
from her waist in a tooled leather sheath.

Eragon crossed his arms, waiting for the woman to notice him. She continued to look at
Saphira, then curtsied and asked sweetly, “Please, could you tell me where Rider Eragon
is?” Saphira’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

With a small smile, Eragon said, “I am here.”

The woman whirled to face him, hand flying to her dagger. Her face was striking, with
almond-shaped eyes, wide lips, and round cheekbones. She relaxed and curtsied again. “I
am Nasuada,” she said.

Eragon inclined his head. “You obviously know who I am, but what do you want?”

Nasuada smiled charmingly. “My father, Ajihad, sent me here with a message. Would
you like to hear it?”

The Varden’s leader had not struck Eragon as one inclined to marriage and fatherhood.
He wondered who Nasuada’s mother was—she must have been an uncommon woman to
have attracted Ajihad’s eye. “Yes, I would.”

Nasuada tossed her hair back and recited: “He is pleased that you are doing well, but he
cautions you against actions like your benediction yesterday. They create more problems
than they solve. Also, he urges you to proceed with the testing as soon as possible—he
needs to know how capable you are before he communicates with the elves.”

“Did you climb all the way up here just to tell me that?” Eragon asked, thinking of Vol
Turin’s length.

Nasuada shook her head. “I used the pulley system that transports goods to the upper
levels. We could have sent the message with signals, but I decided to bring it myself and
meet you in person.”

“Would you like to sit down?” asked Eragon. He motioned toward Saphira’s cave.

Nasuada laughed lightly. “No, I am expected elsewhere. You should also know, my
father decreed that you may visit Murtagh, if you wish.” A somber expression disturbed
her previously smooth features. “I met Murtagh earlier. . . . He’s anxious to speak with
you. He seemed lonely; you should visit him.” She gave Eragon directions to Murtagh’s
cell.


Eragon thanked her for the news, then asked, “What about Arya? Is she better? Can I see
her? Orik wasn’t able to tell me much.”

She smiled mischievously. “Arya is recovering swiftly, as all elves do. No one is allowed
to see her except my father, Hrothgar, and the healers. They have spent much time with
her, learning all that occurred during her imprisonment.” She swept her eyes over
Saphira. “I must go now. Is there anything you would have me convey to Ajihad on your
behalf?”

“No, except a desire to visit Arya. And give him my thanks for the hospitality he’s shown
us.”

“I will take your words directly to him. Farewell, Rider Eragon. I hope we shall soon
meet again.” She curtsied and exited the dragonhold, head held high.

If she really came all the way up Tronjheim just to meet me—pulleys or no pulleys—there
was more to this meeting than idle chatter,remarked Eragon.

Aye,said Saphira, withdrawing her head into the cave. Eragon climbed up to her and was
surprised to see Solembum curled up in the hollow at the base of her neck. The werecat
was purring deeply, his black-tipped tail flicking back and forth. The two of them looked
at Eragon impudently, as if to ask, “What?”

Eragon shook his head, laughing helplessly.Saphira, is Solembum who you wanted to
meet?

They both blinked at him and answered,Yes.

Just wondering,he said, mirth still bubbling inside him. It made sense that they would
befriend each other—their personalities were similar, and they were both creatures of
magic. He sighed, releasing some of the day’s tension as he unbuckled
Zar’roc.Solembum, do you know where Angela is? I couldn’t find her, and I need her
advice.

Solembum kneaded his paws against Saphira’s scaled back.She is somewhere in
Tronjheim.

When will she return?

Soon.

How soon?he asked impatiently.I need to talk to her today.

Not that soon.


The werecat refused to say more, despite Eragon’s persistent questions. He gave up and
nestled against Saphira. Solembum’s purring was a low thrum above his head.I have to
visit Murtagh tomorrow, he thought, fingering Brom’s ring.

ARYA’STEST

On the morning of their third day in Tronjheim, Eragon rolled out of bed refreshed and
energized. He belted Zar’roc to his waist and slung his bow and half-full quiver across his
back. After a leisurely flight inside Farthen Dûr with Saphira, he met Orik by one of
Tronjheim’s four main gates. Eragon asked him about Nasuada.

“An unusual girl,” answered Orik, glancing disapprovingly at Zar’roc. “She’s totally
devoted to her father and spends all her time helping him. I think she does more for
Ajihad than he knows—there have been times when she’s maneuvered his enemies
without ever revealing her part in it.”

“Who is her mother?”

“That I don’t know. Ajihad was alone when he brought Nasuada to Farthen Dûr as a
newborn child. He’s never said where he and Nasuada came from.”

So she too grew up without knowing her mother.He shook off the thought. “I’m restless.
It’ll be good to use my muscles. Where should I go for this ‘testing’ of Ajihad’s?”

Orik pointed out into Farthen Dûr. “The training field is half a mile from Tronjheim,
though you can’t see it from here because it’s behind the city-mountain. It’s a large area
where both dwarves and humans practice.”

I’m coming as well,stated Saphira.

Eragon told Orik, and the dwarf tugged on his beard. “That might not be a good idea.
There are many people at the training field; you will be sure to attract attention.”

Saphira growled loudly.I will come! And that settled the matter.

The unruly clatter of fighting reached them from the field: the loud clang of steel clashing
on steel, the solid thump of arrows striking padded targets, the rattle and crack of wooden
staves, and the shouts of men in mock battle. The noise was confusing, yet each group
had a unique rhythm and pattern.

The bulk of the training ground was occupied by a crooked block of foot soldiers
struggling with shields and poleaxes nearly as tall as themselves. They drilled as a group
in formations. Practicing beside them were hundreds of individual warriors outfitted with


swords, maces, spears, staves, flails, shields of all shapes and sizes, and even, Eragon
saw, someone with a pitchfork. Nearly all the fighters wore armor, usually chain mail and
a helmet; plate armor was not as common. There were as many dwarves as humans,
though the two kept mainly to themselves. Behind the sparring warriors, a broad line of
archers fired steadily at gray sackcloth dummies.

Before Eragon had time to wonder what he was supposed to do, a bearded man, his head
and blocky shoulders covered by a mail coif, strode over to them. The rest of him was
protected by a rough oxhide suit that still had hair on it. A huge sword—almost as long as
Eragon—hung across his broad back. He ran a quick eye over Saphira and Eragon, as if
evaluating how dangerous they were, then said gruffly, “Knurla Orik. You’ve been gone
too long. There’s nobody left for me to spar with.”

Orik smiled. “Oeí, that’s because you bruise everyone from head to toe with your
monster sword.”

“Everyone except you,” he corrected.

“That’s because I’m faster than a giant like you.”

The man looked at Eragon again. “I’m Fredric. I’ve been told to find out what you can
do. How strong are you?”

“Strong enough,” answered Eragon. “I have to be in order to fight with magic.”

Fredric shook his head; the coif clinked like a bag of coins. “Magic has no place in what
we do here. Unless you’ve served in an army, I doubt any fights you’ve been in lasted
more than a few minutes. What we’re concerned about is how you’ll be able to hold up in
a battle that may drag on for hours, or even weeks if it’s a siege. Do you know how to use
any weapons besides that sword and bow?”

Eragon thought about it. “Only my fists.”

“Good answer!” laughed Fredric. “Well, we’ll start you off with the bow and see how
you do. Then once some space has cleared up on the field, we’ll try—” He broke off
suddenly and stared past Eragon, scowling angrily.

The Twins stalked toward them, their bald heads pale against their purple robes. Orik
muttered something in his own language as he slipped his war ax out of his belt. “I told
you two to stay away from the training area,” said Fredric, stepping forward
threateningly. The Twins seemed frail before his bulk.

They looked at him arrogantly. “We were ordered by Ajihad to test Eragon’s proficiency
with magic—beforeyou exhaust him banging on pieces of metal.”

Fredric glowered. “Why can’t someone else test him?”


“No one else is powerful enough,” sniffed the Twins. Saphira rumbled deeply and glared
at them. A line of smoke trickled from her nostrils, but they ignored her. “Come with us,”
they ordered, and strode to an empty corner of the field.

Shrugging, Eragon followed with Saphira. Behind him he heard Fredric say to Orik, “We
have to stop them from going too far.”

“I know,” answered Orik in a low voice, “but I can’t interfere again. Hrothgar made it
clear he won’t be able to protect me the next time it happens.”

Eragon forced back his growing apprehension. The Twins might know more techniques
and words. . . . Still, he remembered what Brom had told him: Riders were stronger in
magic than ordinary men. But would that be enough to resist the combined power of the
Twins?

Don’t worry so much; I will help you,said Saphira.There are two of us as well.

He touched her gently on the leg, relieved by her words. The Twins looked at Eragon and
asked, “And how do you answer us, Eragon?”

Overlooking the puzzled expressions of his companions, he said flatly, “No.”

Sharp lines appeared at the corners of the Twins’ mouths. They turned so they faced
Eragon obliquely and, bending at the waists, drew a large pentagram on the ground. They
stepped in the middle of it, then said harshly, “We begin now. You will attempt to
complete the tasks we assign you . . . that is all.”

One of the Twins reached into his robe, produced a polished rock the size of Eragon’s
fist, and set it on the ground. “Lift it to eye level.”

That’s easy enough,commented Eragon to Saphira. “Stenr reisa!” The rock wobbled, then
smoothly rose from the ground. Before it went more than a foot, an unexpected resistance
halted it in midair. A smile touched the Twins’ lips. Eragon stared at them, enraged—
they were trying to make him fail! If he became exhausted now, it would be impossible to
complete the harder tasks. Obviously they were confident that their combined strength
could easily wear him down.

But I’m not alone either,snarled Eragon to himself.Saphira, now! Her mind melded with
his, and the rock jerked through the air to stop, quivering, at eye level. The Twins’ eyes
narrowed cruelly.

“Very . . . good,” they hissed. Fredric looked unnerved by the display of magic. “Now
move the stone in a circle.” Again Eragon struggled against their efforts to stop him, and
again—to their obvious anger—he prevailed. The exercises quickly increased in
complexity and difficulty until Eragon was forced to think carefully about which words


to use. And each time, the Twins fought him bitterly, though the strain never showed on
their faces.

It was only with Saphira’s support that Eragon was able to hold his ground. In a break
between two of the tasks, he asked her,Why do they continue this testing? Our abilities
were clear enough from what they saw in my mind. She cocked her head thoughtfully.You
know what? he said grimly as comprehension came to him.They’re using this as an
opportunity to figure out what ancient words I know and perhaps learn new ones
themselves.

Speak softly then, so that they cannot hear you, and use the simplest words possible.

From then on, Eragon used only a handful of basic words to complete the tasks. But
finding ways to make them perform in the same manner as a long sentence or phrase
stretched his ingenuity to the limit. He was rewarded by the frustration that contorted the
Twins’ faces as he foiled them again and again. No matter what they tried, they could not
get him to use any more words in the ancient language.


More than an hour passed, but the Twins showed no sign of stopping. Eragon was hot and
thirsty, but refrained from asking for a reprieve—he would continue as long as they did.
There were many tests: manipulating water, casting fire, scrying, juggling rocks,
hardening leather, freezing items, controlling the flight of an arrow, and healing
scratches. He wondered how long it would take for the Twins to run out of ideas.


Finally the Twins raised their hands and said, “There is only one thing left to do. It is
simple enough—anycompetent user of magic should find this easy.” One of them
removed a silver ring from his finger and smugly handed it to Eragon. “Summon the
essence of silver.”


Eragon stared at the ring in confusion. What was he supposed to do? The essence of
silver, what was that? And how was it to be summoned? Saphira had no idea, and the
Twins were not going to help. He had never learned silver’s name in the ancient
language, though he knew it had to be part ofargetlam. In desperation he combined the
only word that might work,ethgrí, or “invoke,” witharget.


Drawing himself upright, he gathered together what power he had left and parted his lips
to deliver the invocation. Suddenly a clear, vibrant voice split the air.


“Stop!”


The word rushed over Eragon like cool water—the voice was strangely familiar, like a
half-remembered melody. The back of his neck tingled. He slowly turned toward its
source.


A lone figure stood behind them: Arya. A leather strip encircled her brow, restraining her
voluminous black hair, which tumbled behind her shoulders in a lustrous cascade. Her



slender sword was at her hip, her bow on her back. Plain black leather clothed her
shapely frame, poor raiment for one so fair. She was taller than most men, and her stance
was perfectly balanced and relaxed. An unmarked face reflected none of the horrific
abuse she had endured.

Arya’s blazing emerald eyes were fixed on the Twins, who had turned pale with fright.
She approached on silent footsteps and said in soft, menacing tones, “Shame! Shame to
ask of him what only a master can do. Shame that you should use such methods. Shame
that you told Ajihad you didn’t know Eragon’s abilities. He is competent. Now leave!”
Arya frowned dangerously, her slanted eyebrows meeting like lightning bolts in a sharp
V, and pointed at the ring in Eragon’s hand. “Arget!” she exclaimed thunderously.

The silver shimmered, and a ghostly image of the ring materialized next to it. The two
were identical except that the apparition seemed purer and glowed white-hot. At the sight
of it, the Twins spun on their heels and fled, robes flapping wildly. The insubstantial ring
vanished from Eragon’s hand, leaving the circlet of silver behind. Orik and Fredric were
on their feet, eyeing Arya warily. Saphira crouched, ready for action.

The elf surveyed them all. Her angled eyes paused on Eragon. Then she turned and strode
toward the heart of the training field. The warriors ceased their sparring and looked at her
with wonder. Within a few moments the entire field fell silent in awe of her presence.

Eragon was inexorably dragged forward by his own fascination. Saphira spoke, but he
was oblivious to her comments. A large circle formed around Arya. Looking only at
Eragon, she proclaimed, “I claim the right of trial by arms. Draw your sword.”

She means to duel me!

But not, I think, to harm you,replied Saphira slowly. She nudged him with her nose.Go
and acquit yourself well. I will watch.

Eragon reluctantly stepped forward. He did not want to do this when he was exhausted
from magic use and when there were so many people watching. Besides, Arya could be
in no shape for sparring. It had only been two days since she had received Túnivor’s
Nectar.I will soften my blows so I don’t hurt her, he decided.

They faced each other across the circle of warriors. Arya drew her sword with her left
hand. The weapon was thinner than Eragon’s, but just as long and sharp. He slid Zar’roc
out of its polished sheath and held the red blade point-down by his side. For a long
moment they stood motionless, elf and human watching each other. It flashed through
Eragon’s mind that this was how many of his fights with Brom had started.

He moved forward cautiously. With a blur of motion Arya jumped at him, slashing at his
ribs. Eragon reflexively parried the attack, and their swords met in a shower of sparks.
Zar’roc was batted aside as if it were no more than a fly. The elf did not take advantage
of the opening, however, but spun to her right, hair whipping through the air, and struck


at his other side. He barely stopped the blow and backpedaled frantically, stunned by her
ferocity and speed.

Belatedly, Eragon remembered Brom’s warning that even the weakest elf could easily
overpower a human. He had about as much chance of defeating Arya as he did Durza.
She attacked again, swinging at his head. He ducked under the razor-sharp edge. But then
whywas she . . .toying with him? For a few long seconds he was too busy warding her
off to think about it, then he realized,She wants to know how proficient I am.

Understanding that, he began the most complicated series of attacks he knew. He flowed
from one pose to another, recklessly combining and modifying them in every possible
way. But no matter how inventive he was, Arya’s sword always stopped his. She matched
his actions with effortless grace.

Engaged in a fiery dance, their bodies were linked and separated by the flashing blades.
At times they nearly touched, taut skin only a hair’s breadth away, but then momentum
would whirl them apart, and they would withdraw for a second, only to join again. Their
sinuous forms wove together like twisting ropes of windblown smoke.

Eragon could never remember how long they fought. It was timeless, filled with nothing
but action and reaction. Zar’roc grew leaden in his hand; his arm burned ferociously with
each stroke. At last, as he lunged forward, Arya nimbly sidestepped, sweeping the point
of her sword up to his jawbone with supernatural speed.

Eragon froze as the icy metal touched his skin. His muscles trembled from the exertion.
Dimly he heard Saphira bugle and the warriors cheering raucously around them. Arya
lowered her sword and sheathed it. “You have passed,” she said quietly amid the noise.

Dazed, he slowly straightened. Fredric was beside him now, thumping his back
enthusiastically. “That was incredible swordsmanship! I even learned some new moves
from watching the two of you. And the elf—stunning!”

But I lost,he protested silently. Orik praised his performance with a broad smile, but all
Eragon noticed was Arya, standing alone and silent. She motioned slightly with a finger,
no more than a twitch, toward a knoll about a mile from the practice field, then turned
and walked away. The crowd melted before her. A hush fell over the men and dwarves as
she passed.

Eragon turned to Orik. “I have to go. I’ll return to the dragonhold soon.” With a swift jab,
Eragon sheathed Zar’roc and pulled himself onto Saphira. She took off over the training
field, which turned into a sea of faces as everyone looked at her.

As they soared toward the knoll, Eragon saw Arya running below them with clean, easy
strides. Saphira commented,You find her form pleasing, do you not?

Yes,he admitted, blushing.


Her face does have more character than that of most humans,she sniffed.But it’s long,
like a horse’s, and overall she’s rather shapeless.

Eragon looked at Saphira with amazement.You’re jealous, aren’t you!

Impossible. I never get jealous,she said, offended.

You are now, admit it!he laughed.

She snapped her jaws together loudly.I am not! He smiled and shook his head, but let her
denial stand. She landed heavily on the knoll, jostling him roughly. He jumped down
without remarking on it.

Arya was close behind them. Her fleet stride carried her faster than any runner Eragon
had seen. When she reached the top of the knoll, her breathing was smooth and regular.
Suddenly tongue-tied, Eragon dropped his gaze. She strode past him and said to Saphira,
“Skulblaka, eka celöbra ono un mulabra ono un onr Shur’tugal né haina. Atra nosu waíse
fricai.”

Eragon did not recognize most of the words, but Saphira obviously understood the
message. She shuffled her wings and surveyed Arya curiously. Then she nodded,
humming deeply. Arya smiled. “I am glad that you recovered,” Eragon said. “We didn’t
know if you would live or not.”

“That is why I came here today,” said Arya, facing him. Her rich voice was accented and
exotic. She spoke clearly, with a hint of trill, as if she were about to sing. “I owe you a
debt that must be repaid. You saved my life. That can never be forgotten.”

“It—it was nothing,” said Eragon, fumbling with the words and knowing they were not
true, even as he spoke them. Embarrassed, he changed the subject. “How did you come to
be in Gil’ead?”

Pain shadowed Arya’s face. She looked away into the distance. “Let us walk.” They
descended from the knoll and meandered toward Farthen Dûr. Eragon respected Arya’s
silence as they walked. Saphira padded quietly beside them. Finally Arya lifted her head
and said with the grace of her kind, “Ajihad told me you were present when Saphira’s
egg appeared.”

“Yes.” For the first time, Eragon thought about the energy it must have taken to transport
the egg over the dozens of leagues that separated Du Weldenvarden from the Spine. To
even attempt such a feat was courting disaster, if not death.

Her next words were heavy. “Then know this: at the moment you first beheld it, I was
captured by Durza.” Her voice filled with bitterness and grief. “It was he who led the
Urgals that ambushed and slew my companions, Faolin and Glenwing. Somehow he
knew where to wait for us—we had no warning. I was drugged and transported to


Gil’ead. There, Durza was charged by Galbatorix to learn where I had sent the egg and all
I knew of Ellesméra.”

She stared ahead icily, jaw clenched. “He tried for months without success. His methods
were . . . harsh. When torture failed, he ordered his soldiers to use me as they would.
Fortunately, I still had the strength to nudge their minds and make them incapable. At last
Galbatorix ordered that I was to be brought to Urû’baen. Dread filled me when I learned
this, as I was weary in both mind and body and had no strength to resist him. If it were
not for you, I would have stood before Galbatorix in a week’s time.”

Eragon shuddered inwardly. It was amazing what she had survived. The memory of her
injuries was still vivid in his mind. Softly, he asked, “Why do you tell me all this?”

“So that you know what I was saved from. Do not presume I can ignore your deed.”

Humbled, he bowed his head. “What will you do now—return to Ellesméra?”

“No, not yet. There is much that must be done here. I cannot abandon the Varden—
Ajihad needs my help. I’ve seen you tested in both arms and magic today. Brom taught
you well. You are ready to proceed in your training.”

“You mean for me to go to Ellesméra?”

“Yes.”

Eragon felt a flash of irritation. Did he and Saphira have no say in the matter? “When?”

“That is yet to be decided, but not for some weeks.”

At least they gave us that much time,thought Eragon. Saphira mentioned something to
him, and he in turn asked Arya, “What did the Twins want me to do?”

Arya’s sculpted lip curled with disgust. “Something not even they can accomplish. It is
possible to speak the name of an object in the ancient language and summon its true
form. It takes years of work and great discipline, but the reward is complete control over
the object. That is why one’s true name is always kept hidden, for if it were known by
any with evil in their hearts, they could dominate you utterly.”

“It’s strange,” said Eragon after a moment, “but before I was captured at Gil’ead, I had
visions of you in my dreams. It was like scrying—and I was able to scry you later—but it
was always during my sleep.”

Arya pursed her lips pensively. “There were times I felt as if another presence was
watching me, but I was often confused and feverish. I’ve never heard of anyone, either in
lore or legend, being able to scry in their sleep.”


“I don’t understand it myself,” said Eragon, looking at his hands. He twirled Brom’s ring
around his finger. “What does the tattoo on your shoulder mean? I didn’t mean to see it,
but when I was healing your wounds . . . it couldn’t be helped. It’s just like the symbol on
this ring.”

“You have a ring with the yawë on it?” she asked sharply.

“Yes. It was Brom’s. See?”

He held out the ring. Arya examined the sapphire, then said, “This is a token given only
to the most valued elf-friends—so valued, in fact, it has not been used in centuries. Or so
I thought. I never knew that Queen Islanzadi thought so highly of Brom.”

“I shouldn’t wear it, then,” said Eragon, afraid that he had been presumptuous.

“No, keep it. It will give you protection if you meet my people by chance, and it may
help you gain favor with the queen. Tell no one of my tattoo. It should not be revealed.”

“Very well.”

He enjoyed talking with Arya and wished their conversation could have lasted longer.
When they parted, he wandered through Farthen Dûr, conversing with Saphira. Despite
his prodding, she refused to tell him what Arya had said to her. Eventually his thoughts
turned to Murtagh and then to Nasuada’s advice.I’ll get something to eat, then go see
him, he decided.Will you wait for me so I can return to the dragonhold with you?

I will wait—go,said Saphira.

With a grateful smile, Eragon dashed to Tronjheim, ate in an obscure corner of a kitchen,
then followed Nasuada’s instructions until he reached a small gray door guarded by a
man and a dwarf. When he requested entrance, the dwarf banged on the door three times,
then unbolted it. “Just holler when you want to leave,” said the man with a friendly smile.

The cell was warm and well lit, with a washbasin in one corner and a writing desk—
equipped with quills and ink—in another. The ceiling was extensively carved with
lacquered figures; the floor was covered with a plush rug. Murtagh lay on a stout bed,
reading a scroll. He looked up in surprise and exclaimed cheerily, “Eragon! I’d hoped
you would come!”

“How did . . . I mean I thought—”

“You thought I was stuck in some rat hole chewing on hardtack,” said Murtagh, rolling
upright with a grin. “Actually, I expected the same thing, but Ajihad lets me have all this


as long as I don’t cause trouble. And they bring me huge meals, as well as anything I
want from the library. If I’m not careful, I’ll turn into a fat scholar.”

Eragon laughed, and with a wondering smile seated himself next to Murtagh. “But aren’t
you angry? You’re still a prisoner.”

“Oh, I was at first,” said Murtagh with a shrug. “But the more I thought about it, the more
I came to realize that this is really the best place for me. Even if Ajihad gave me my
freedom, I would stay in my room most of the time anyway.”

“But why?”

“You know well enough. No one would be at ease around me, knowing my true identity,
and there would always be people who wouldn’t limit themselves to harsh looks or
words. But enough of that, I’m eager to know what’s new. Come, tell me.”

Eragon recounted the events of the past two days, including his encounter with the Twins
in the library. When he finished, Murtagh leaned back reflectively. “I suspect,” he said,
“that Arya is more important than either of us thought. Consider what you’ve learned: she
is a master of the sword, powerful in magic, and, most significantly, was chosen to guard
Saphira’s egg. She cannot be ordinary, even among the elves.”

Eragon agreed.

Murtagh stared at the ceiling. “You know, I find this imprisonment oddly peaceful. For
once in my life I don’t have to be afraid. I know I ought to be . . . yet something about
this place puts me at ease. A good night’s sleep helps, too.”

“I know what you mean,” said Eragon wryly. He moved to a softer place on the bed.
“Nasuada said that she visited you. Did she say anything interesting?”

Murtagh’s gaze shifted into the distance, and he shook his head. “No, she only wanted to
meet me. Doesn’t she look like a princess? And the way she carries herself! When she
first entered through that doorway, I thought she was one of the great ladies of
Galbatorix’s court. I’ve seen earls and counts who had wives that, compared to her, were
more fitted for life as a hog than of nobility.”

Eragon listened to his praise with growing apprehension.It may mean nothing, he
reminded himself.You’re leaping to conclusions. Yet the foreboding would not leave him.
Trying to shake off the feeling, he asked, “How long are you going to remain imprisoned,
Murtagh? You can’t hide forever.”

Murtagh shrugged carelessly, but there was weight behind his words. “For now I’m
content to stay and rest. There’s no reason for me to seek shelter elsewhere nor submit
myself to the Twins’ examination. No doubt I’ll tire of this eventually, but for now . . . I
am content.”


THESHADOWS
LENGTHEN

Saphira woke Eragon with a sharp rap of her snout, bruising him with her hard jaw.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, sitting upright. The cave was dark except for a faint glow
emanating from the shuttered lantern. Outside in the dragonhold, Isidar Mithrim glittered
with a thousand different colors, illuminated by its girdle of lanterns.

An agitated dwarf stood in the entrance to the cave, wringing his hands. “You must come,
Argetlam! Great trouble—Ajihad summons you. There is no time!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Eragon.

The dwarf only shook his head, beard wagging. “Go, you must! Carkna bragha! Now!”

Eragon belted on Zar’roc, grabbed his bow and arrows, then strapped the saddle onto
Saphira.So much for a good night’s sleep, she groused, crouching low to the floor so he
could clamber onto her back. He yawned loudly as Saphira launched herself from the
cave.

Orik was waiting for them with a grim expression when they landed at Tronjheim’s gates.
“Come, the others are waiting.” He led them through Tronjheim to Ajihad’s study. On the
way, Eragon plied him with questions, but Orik would only say, “I don’t know enough
myself—wait until you hear Ajihad.”

The large study door was opened by a pair of burly guards. Ajihad stood behind his desk,
bleakly inspecting a map. Arya and a man with wiry arms were there as well. Ajihad
looked up. “Good, you’re here, Eragon. Meet Jörmundur, my second in command.”

They acknowledged each other, then turned their attention to Ajihad. “I roused the five of
you because we are all in grave danger. About half an hour ago a dwarf ran out of an
abandoned tunnel under Tronjheim. He was bleeding and nearly incoherent, but he had
enough sense left to tell the dwarves what was pursuing him: an army of Urgals, maybe a
day’s march from here.”

Shocked silence filled the study. Then Jörmundur swore explosively and began asking
questions at the same time Orik did. Arya remained silent. Ajihad raised his hands.
“Quiet! There is more. The Urgals aren’t approachingover land, butunder it. They’re in
the tunnels . . . we’re going to be attacked from below.”

Eragon raised his voice in the din that followed. “Why didn’t the dwarves know about
this sooner? How did the Urgals find the tunnels?”

“We’re lucky to know about it this early!” bellowed Orik. Everyone stopped talking to
hear him. “There are hundreds of tunnels throughout the Beor Mountains, uninhabited


since the day they were mined. The only dwarves who go in them are eccentrics who
don’t want contact with anyone. We could have just as easily received no warning at all.”

Ajihad pointed at the map, and Eragon moved closer. The map depicted the southern half
of Alagaësia, but unlike Eragon’s, it showed the entire Beor Mountain range in detail.
Ajihad’s finger was on the section of the Beor Mountains that touched Surda’s eastern
border. “This,” he said, “is where the dwarf claimed to have come from.”

“Orthíad!” exclaimed Orik. At Jörmundur’s puzzled inquiry, he explained, “It’s an
ancient dwelling of ours that was deserted when Tronjheim was completed. During its
time it was the greatest of our cities. But no one’s lived there for centuries.”

“And it’s old enough for some of the tunnels to have collapsed,” said Ajihad. “That’s
how we surmise it was discovered from the surface. I suspect that Orthíad is now being
called Ithrö Zhâda. That’s where the Urgal column that was chasing Eragon and Saphira
was supposed to go, and I’m sure it’s where the Urgals have been migrating all year.
From Ithrö Zhâda they can travel anywhere they want in the Beor Mountains. They have
the power to destroy both the Varden and the dwarves.”

Jörmundur bent over the map, eyeing it carefully. “Do you know how many Urgals there
are? Are Galbatorix’s troops with them? We can’t plan a defense without knowing how
large their army is.”

Ajihad replied unhappily, “We’re unsure about both those things, yet our survival rests
on that last question. If Galbatorix has augmented the Urgals’ ranks with his own men,
we don’t stand a chance. But if he hasn’t—because he still doesn’t want his alliance with
the Urgals revealed, or for some other reason—it’s possible we can win. Neither Orrin
nor the elves can help us at this late hour. Even so, I sent runners to both of them with
news of our plight. At the very least they won’t be caught by surprise if we fall.”

He drew a hand across his coal-black brow. “I’ve already talked with Hrothgar, and
we’ve decided on a course of action. Our only hope is to contain the Urgals in three of
the larger tunnels and channel them into Farthen Dûr so they don’t swarm inside
Tronjheim like locusts.

“I need you, Eragon and Arya, to help the dwarves collapse extraneous tunnels. The job
is too big for normal means. Two groups of dwarves are already working on it: one
outside Tronjheim, the other beneath it. Eragon, you’re to work with the group outside.
Arya, you’ll be with the one underground; Orik will guide you to them.”

“Why not collapse all the tunnels instead of leaving the large ones untouched?” asked
Eragon.

“Because,” said Orik, “that would force the Urgals to clear away the rubble, and they
might decide to go in a direction we don’t want them to. Plus, if we cut ourselves off,
they could attack other dwarf cities—which we wouldn’t be able to assist in time.”


“There’s also another reason,” said Ajihad. “Hrothgar warned me that Tronjheim sits on
such a dense network of tunnels that if too many are weakened, sections of the city will
sink into the ground under their own weight. We can’t risk that.”

Jörmundur listened intently, then asked, “So there won’t be any fighting inside
Tronjheim? You said the Urgals would be channeled outside the city, into Farthen Dûr.”

Ajihad responded quickly, “That’s right. We can’t defend Tronjheim’s entire perimeter—
it’s too big for our forces—so we’re going to seal all the passageways and gates leading
into it. That will force the Urgals out onto the flats surrounding Tronjheim, where there’s
plenty of maneuvering room for our armies. Since the Urgals have access to the tunnels,
we cannot risk an extended battle. As long as they are here, we will be in constant danger
of them quarrying up through Tronjheim’s floor. If that happens, we’ll be trapped,
attacked from both the outside and inside. We have to prevent the Urgals from taking
Tronjheim. If they secure it, it’s doubtful we will have the strength to roust them.”

“And what of our families?” asked Jörmundur. “I won’t see my wife and son murdered
by Urgals.”

The lines deepened on Ajihad’s face. “All the women and children are being evacuated
into the surrounding valleys. If we are defeated, they have guides who will take them to
Surda. That’s all I can do, under the circumstances.”

Jörmundur struggled to hide his relief. “Sir, is Nasuada going as well?”

“She is not pleased, but yes.” All eyes were on Ajihad as he squared his shoulders and
announced, “The Urgals will arrive in a matter of hours. We know their numbers are
great, but wemust hold Farthen Dûr. Failure will mean the dwarves’ downfall, death to
the Varden—and eventual defeat for Surda and the elves. This is one battle we cannot
lose. Now go and complete your tasks! Jörmundur, ready the men to fight.”

They left the study and scattered: Jörmundur to the barracks, Orik and Arya to the stairs
leading underground, and Eragon and Saphira down one of Tronjheim’s four main halls.
Despite the early hour, the city-mountain swarmed like an anthill. People were running,
shouting messages, and carrying bundles of belongings.

Eragon had fought and killed before, but the battle that awaited them sent stabs of fear
into his chest. He had never had a chance to anticipate a fight. Now that he did, it filled
him with dread. He was confident when facing only a few opponents—he knew he could
easily defeat three or four Urgals with Zar’roc and magic—but in a large conflict,
anything could happen.

They exited Tronjheim and looked for the dwarves they were supposed to help. Without
the sun or moon, the inside of Farthen Dûr was dark as lampblack, punctuated by


glittering lanterns bobbing jerkily in the crater.Perhaps they’re on the far side of
Tronjheim, suggested Saphira. Eragon agreed and swung onto her back.

They glided around Tronjheim until a clump of lanterns came into sight. Saphira angled
toward them, then with no more than a whisper landed beside a group of startled dwarves
who were busy digging with pickaxes. Eragon quickly explained why he was there. A
sharp-nosed dwarf told him, “There’s a tunnel about four yards directly underneath us.
Any help you could give us would be appreciated.”

“If you clear the area over the tunnel, I’ll see what I can do.” The sharp-nosed dwarf
looked doubtful, but ordered the diggers off the site.

Breathing slowly, Eragon prepared to use magic. It might be possible to actually move all
the dirt off the tunnel, but he needed to conserve his strength for later. Instead, he would
try to collapse the tunnel by applying force to weak sections of its ceiling.

“Thrysta deloi,” he whispered and sent tentacles of power into the soil. Almost
immediately they encountered rock. He ignored it and reached farther down until he felt
the hollow emptiness of the tunnel. Then he began searching for flaws in the rock. Every
time he found one, he pushed on it, elongating and widening it. It was strenuous work,
but no more than it would have been to split the stone by hand. He made no visible
progress—a fact that was not lost on the impatient dwarves.

Eragon persevered. Before long he was rewarded by a resounding crack that could be
heard clearly on the surface. There was a persistent screech, then the ground slid inward
like water draining from a tub, leaving a gaping hole seven yards across.

As the delighted dwarves walled off the tunnel with rubble, the sharp-nosed dwarf led
Eragon to the next tunnel. This one was much more difficult to collapse, but he managed
to duplicate the feat. Over the next few hours, he collapsed over a half-dozen tunnels
throughout Farthen Dûr, with Saphira’s help.

Light crept into the small patch of sky above them as he worked. It was not enough to see
by, but it bolstered Eragon’s confidence. He turned away from the crumpled ruins of the
latest tunnel and surveyed the land with interest.

A mass exodus of women and children, along with the Varden’s elders, streamed out of
Tronjheim. Everyone carried loads of provisions, clothes, and belongings. A small group
of warriors, predominantly boys and old men, accompanied them.

Most of the activity, however, was at the base of Tronjheim, where the Varden and
dwarves were assembling their army, which was divided into three battalions. Each
section bore the Varden’s standard: a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing
downward on a purple field.


The men were silent, ironfisted. Their hair flowed loosely from under their helmets.
Many warriors had only a sword and a shield, but there were several ranks of spear-and
pikemen. In the rear of the battalions, archers tested their bowstrings.

The dwarves were garbed in heavy battle gear. Burnished steel hauberks hung to their
knees, and thick roundshields, stamped with the crests of their clan, rested on their left
arms. Short swords were sheathed at their waists, while in their right hands they carried
mattocks or war axes. Their legs were covered with extra-fine mail. They wore iron caps
and brass-studded boots.

A small figure detached itself from the far battalion and hurried toward Eragon and
Saphira. It was Orik, clad like the other dwarves. “Ajihad wants you to join the army,” he
said. “There are no more tunnels to cave in. Food is waiting for both of you.”

Eragon and Saphira accompanied Orik to a tent, where they found bread and water for
Eragon and a pile of dried meat for Saphira. They ate it without complaint; it was better
than going hungry.

When they finished, Orik told them to wait and disappeared into the battalion’s ranks. He
returned, leading a line of dwarves burdened with tall piles of plate armor. Orik lifted a
section of it and handed it to Eragon.

“What is this?” asked Eragon, fingering the polished metal. The armor was intricately
wrought with engraving and gold filigree. It was an inch thick in places and very heavy.
No man could fight under that much weight. And there were far too many pieces for one
person.

“A gift from Hrothgar,” said Orik, looking pleased with himself. “It has lain so long
among our other treasures that it was almost forgotten. It was forged in another age,
before the fall of the Riders.”

“But what’s itfor ?” asked Eragon.

“Why, it’s dragon armor, of course! You don’t think that dragons went into battle
unprotected? Complete sets are rare because they took so long to make and because
dragons were always growing. Still, Saphira isn’t too big yet, so this should fit her
reasonably well.”

Dragon armor!As Saphira nosed one of the pieces, Eragon asked,What do you think?

Let’s try it on,she said, a fierce gleam in her eye.

After a good deal of struggling, Eragon and Orik stepped back to admire the result.
Saphira’s entire neck—except for the spikes along its ridge—was covered with triangular
scales of overlapping armor. Her belly and chest were protected by the heaviest plates,
while the lightest ones were on her tail. Her legs and back were completely encased. Her


wings were left bare. A single molded plate lay on top of her head, leaving her lower jaw
free to bite and snap.

Saphira arched her neck experimentally, and the armor flexed smoothly with her.This will
slow me down, but it’ll help stop the arrows. How do I look?

Very intimidating,replied Eragon truthfully. That pleased her.

Orik picked up the remaining items from the ground. “I brought you armor as well,
though it took much searching to find your size. We rarely forge arms for men or elves. I
don’t know who this was made for, but it has never been used and should serve you
well.”

Over Eragon’s head went a stiff shirt of leather-backed mail that fell to his knees like a
skirt. It rested heavily on his shoulders and clinked when he moved. He belted Zar’roc
over it, which helped keep the mail from swinging. On his head went a leather cap, then a
mail coif, and finally a gold-and-silver helm. Bracers were strapped to his forearms, and
greaves to his lower legs. For his hands there were mail-backed gloves. Last, Orik handed
him a broad shield emblazoned with an oak tree.

Knowing that what he and Saphira had been given was worth several fortunes, Eragon
bowed and said, “Thank you for these gifts. Hrothgar’s presents are greatly appreciated.”

“Don’t give thanks now,” said Orik with a chuckle. “Wait until the armor saves your
life.”

The warriors around them began marching away. The three battalions were repositioning
themselves in different parts of Farthen Dûr. Unsure of what they should do, Eragon
looked at Orik, who shrugged and said, “I suppose we should accompany them.” They
trailed behind a battalion as it headed toward the crater wall. Eragon asked about the
Urgals, but Orik only knew that scouts had been posted underground in the tunnels and
that nothing had been seen or heard yet.

The battalion halted at one of the collapsed tunnels. The dwarves had piled the rubble so
that anyone inside the tunnel could easily climb out.This must be one of the places they’re
going to force the Urgals to surface, Saphira pointed out.

Hundreds of lanterns were fixed atop poles and stuck into the ground. They provided a
great pool of light that glowed like an evening sun. Fires blazed along the rim of the
tunnel’s roof, huge cauldrons of pitch heating over them. Eragon looked away, fighting
back revulsion. It was a terrible way to kill anyone, even an Urgal.

Rows of sharpened saplings were being pounded into the ground to provide a thorny
barrier between the battalion and the tunnel. Eragon saw an opportunity to help and
joined a group of men digging trenches between the saplings. Saphira assisted as well,
scooping out the dirt with her giant claws. While they labored, Orik left to supervise the


construction of a barricade to shield the archers. Eragon drank gratefully from the
wineskin whenever it was passed around. After the trenches were finished and filled with
pointed stakes, Saphira and Eragon rested.

Orik returned to find them seated together. He wiped his brow. “All the men and dwarves
are on the battlefield. Tronjheim has been sealed off. Hrothgar has taken charge of the
battalion to our left. Ajihad leads the one ahead of us.”

“Who commands this one?”

“Jörmundur.” Orik sat with a grunt and placed his war ax on the ground.

Saphira nudged Eragon.Look. His hand tightened on Zar’roc as he saw Murtagh, helmed,
carrying a dwarven shield and his hand-and-a-half sword, approaching with Tornac.

Orik cursed and leapt to his feet, but Murtagh said quickly, “It’s all right; Ajihad released
me.”

“Why would he do that?” demanded Orik.

Murtagh smiled wryly. “He said this was an opportunity to prove my good intentions.
Apparently, he doesn’t think I would be able to do much damage even if I did turn on the
Varden.”

Eragon nodded in welcome, relaxing his grip. Murtagh was an excellent and merciless
fighter—exactly whom Eragon wanted by his side during battle.

“How do we know you’re not lying?” asked Orik.

“Because I say so,” announced a firm voice. Ajihad strode into their midst, armed for
battle with a breastplate and an ivory-handled sword. He put a strong hand on Eragon’s
shoulder and drew him away where the others could not hear. He cast an eye over
Eragon’s armor. “Good, Orik outfitted you.”

“Yes . . . has anything been seen in the tunnels?”

“Nothing.” Ajihad leaned on his sword. “One of the Twins is staying in Tronjheim. He’s
going to watch the battle from the dragonhold and relay information through his brother
to me. I know you can speak with your mind. I need you to tell the Twins
anything,anything, unusual that you see while fighting. Also, I’ll relay orders to you
through them. Do you understand?”

The thought of being linked to the Twins filled Eragon with loathing, but he knew it was
necessary. “I do.”


Ajihad paused. “You’re not a foot soldier or horseman, nor any other type of warrior I’m
used to commanding. Battle may prove differently, but I think you and Saphira will be
safer on the ground. In the air, you’ll be a choice target for Urgal archers. Will you fight
from Saphira’s back?”

Eragon had never been in combat on horseback, much less on Saphira. “I’m not sure
what we’ll do. When I’m on Saphira, I’m up too high to fight all but a Kull.”

“There will be plenty of Kull, I’m afraid,” said Ajihad. He straightened, pulling his sword
out of the ground. “The only advice I can give you is to avoid unnecessary risks. The
Varden cannot afford to lose you.” With that, he turned and left.

Eragon returned to Orik and Murtagh and hunkered next to Saphira, leaning his shield
against his knees. The four of them waited in silence like the hundreds of warriors around
them. Light from Farthen Dûr’s opening waned as the sun crept below the crater rim.

Eragon turned to scan the encampment and froze, heart jolting. About thirty feet away sat
Arya with her bow in her lap. Though he knew it was unreasonable, he had hoped she
might accompany the other women out of Farthen Dûr. Concerned, he hastened to her.
“You will fight?”

“I do what I must,” Arya said calmly.

“But it’s too dangerous!”

Her face darkened. “Do not pamper me, human. Elves train both their men and women to
fight. I am not one of your helpless females to run away whenever there is danger. I was
given the task of protecting Saphira’s egg . . . which I failed. My breoal is dishonored and
would be further shamed if I did not guard you and Saphira on this field. You forget that I
am stronger with magic than any here, including you. If the Shade comes, who can defeat
him but me? And who else has the right?”

Eragon stared at her helplessly, knowing she was right and hating the fact. “Then stay
safe.” Out of desperation, he added in the ancient language, “Wiol pömnuria ilian.” For
my happiness.

Arya turned her gaze away uneasily, the fringe of her hair obscuring her face. She ran a
hand along her polished bow, then murmured, “It is my wyrd to be here. The debt must
be paid.”

He abruptly retreated to Saphira. Murtagh looked at him curiously. “What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

Wrapped in their own thoughts, the defenders sank into a brooding silence as the hours
crawled by. Farthen Dûr’s crater again grew black, except for the sanguine lantern glow


and the fires heating the pitch. Eragon alternated between myopically examining the links
of his mail and spying on Arya. Orik repeatedly ran a whetstone over the blade of his ax,
periodically eyeing the edge between strokes; the rasp of metal on stone was irritating.
Murtagh just stared into the distance.

Occasionally, messengers ran through the encampment, causing the warriors to surge to
their feet. But it always proved to be a false alarm. The men and dwarves became
strained; angry voices were often heard. The worst part about Farthen Dûr was the lack of
wind—the air was dead, motionless. Even when it grew warm and stifling and filled with
smoke, there was no reprieve.

As the night dragged on, the battlefield stilled, silent as death. Muscles stiffened from the
waiting. Eragon stared blankly into the darkness with heavy eyelids. He shook himself to
alertness and tried to focus through his stupor.

Finally Orik said, “It’s late. We should sleep. If anything happens, the others will wake
us.” Murtagh grumbled, but Eragon was too tired to complain. He curled up against
Saphira, using his shield as a pillow. As his eyes closed, he saw that Arya was still
awake, watching over them.

His dreams were confused and disturbing, full of horned beasts and unseen menaces.
Over and over he heard a deep voice ask, “Are you ready?” But he never had an answer.
Plagued by such visions, his sleep was shallow and uneasy until something touched his
arm. He woke with a start.

BATTLEUNDER
FARTHENDÛR

“It has begun,” Arya said with a sorrowful expression. The troops in the encampment
stood alertly with their weapons drawn. Orik swung his ax to make sure he had enough
room. Arya nocked an arrow and held it ready to shoot.

“A scout ran out of a tunnel a few minutes ago,” said Murtagh to Eragon. “The Urgals are
coming.”

Together they watched the dark mouth of the tunnel through the ranks of men and
sharpened stakes. A minute dragged by, then another . . . and another. Without taking his
eyes from the tunnel, Eragon hoisted himself into Saphira’s saddle, Zar’roc in his hand, a
comfortable weight. Murtagh mounted Tornac beside him. Then a man cried, “I hear
them!”

The warriors stiffened; grips tightened on weapons. No one moved . . . no one breathed.
Somewhere a horse nickered.


Harsh Urgal shouts shattered the air as dark shapes boiled upward in the tunnel’s
opening. At a command, the cauldrons of pitch were tilted on their sides, pouring the
scalding liquid into the tunnel’s hungry throat. The monsters howled in pain, arms
flailing. A torch was thrown onto the bubbling pitch, and an orange pillar of greasy
flames roared up in the opening, engulfing the Urgals in an inferno. Sickened, Eragon
looked across Farthen Dûr at the other two battalions and saw similar fires by each. He
sheathed Zar’roc and strung his bow.

More Urgals soon tamped the pitch down and clambered out of the tunnels over their
burned brethren. They clumped together, presenting a solid wall to the men and dwarves.
Behind the palisade Orik had helped build, the first row of archers pulled on their bows
and fired. Eragon and Arya added their arrows to the deadly swarm and watched the
shafts eat through the Urgals’ ranks.

The Urgal line wavered, threatening to break, but they covered themselves with their
shields and weathered the attack. Again the archers fired, but the Urgals continued to
stream onto the surface at a ferocious rate.

Eragon was dismayed by their numbers. They were supposed to kill every single one? It
seemed a madman’s task. His only encouragement was that he saw none of Galbatorix’s
troops with the Urgals. Not yet, at least.

The opposing army formed a solid mass of bodies that seemed to stretch endlessly.
Tattered and sullen standards were raised in the monsters’ midst. Baleful notes echoed
through Farthen Dûr as war horns sounded. The entire group of Urgals charged with
savage war cries.

They dashed against the rows of stakes, covering them with slick blood and limp corpses
as the ranks at the vanguard were crushed against the posts. A cloud of black arrows flew
over the barrier at the crouched defenders. Eragon ducked behind his shield, and Saphira
covered her head. Arrows rattled harmlessly against her armor.

Momentarily foiled by the pickets, the Urgal horde milled with confusion. The Varden
bunched together, waiting for the next attack. After a pause, the war cries were raised
again as the Urgals surged forward. The assault was bitter. Its momentum carried the
Urgals through the stakes, where a line of pikemen jabbed frantically at their ranks, trying
to repel them. The pikemen held briefly, but the ominous tide of Urgals could not be
halted, and they were overwhelmed.

The first lines of defense breached, the main bodies of the two forces collided for the first
time. A deafening roar burst from the men and dwarves as they rushed into the conflict.
Saphira bellowed and leapt toward the fight, diving into a whirlwind of noise and blurred
action.

With her jaws and talons, Saphira tore through an Urgal. Her teeth were as lethal as any
sword, her tail a giant mace. From her back, Eragon parried a hammer blow from an


Urgal chief, protecting her vulnerable wings. Zar’roc’s crimson blade seemed to gleam
with delight as blood spurted along its length.

From the corner of his eye, Eragon saw Orik hewing Urgal necks with mighty blows of
his ax. Beside the dwarf was Murtagh on Tornac, his face disfigured by a vicious snarl as
he swung his sword angrily, cutting through every defense. Then Saphira spun around,
and Eragon saw Arya leap past the lifeless body of an opponent.

An Urgal bowled over a wounded dwarf and hacked at Saphira’s front right leg. His
sword skated off her armor with a burst of sparks. Eragon smote him on the head, but
Zar’roc stuck in the monster’s horns and was yanked from his grasp. With a curse he
dived off Saphira and tackled the Urgal, smashing his face with the shield. He jerked
Zar’roc out of the horns, then dodged as another Urgal charged him.

Saphira, I need you!he shouted, but the battle’s tide had separated them. Suddenly a Kull
jumped at him, club raised for a blow. Unable to lift his shield in time, Eragon uttered,
“Jierda!” The Kull’s head snapped back with a sharp report as his neck broke. Four more
Urgals succumbed to Zar’roc’s thirsty bite, then Murtagh rode up beside Eragon, driving
the press of Urgals backward.

“Come on!” he shouted, and reached down from Tornac, pulling Eragon onto the horse.
They rushed toward Saphira, who was embroiled in a mass of enemies. Twelve spear-
wielding Urgals encircled her, needling her with their lances. They had already managed
to prick both of her wings. Her blood splattered the ground. Every time she rushed at one
of the Urgals, they bunched together and jabbed at her eyes, forcing her to retreat. She
tried to sweep the spears away with her talons, but the Urgals jumped back and evaded
her.

The sight of Saphira’s blood enraged Eragon. He swung off Tornac with a wild cry and
stabbed the nearest Urgal through the chest, withholding nothing in his frenzied attempt
to help Saphira. His attack provided the distraction she needed to break free. With a kick,
she sent an Urgal flying, then barreled to him. Eragon grabbed one of her neck spikes and
pulled himself back into her saddle. Murtagh raised his hand, then charged into another
knot of Urgals.

By unspoken consent, Saphira took flight and rose above the struggling armies, seeking a
respite from the madness. Eragon’s breath trembled. His muscles were clenched, ready to
ward off the next attack. Every fiber of his being thrilled with energy, making him feel
more alive than ever before.

Saphira circled long enough for them to recover their strength, then descended toward the
Urgals, skimming the ground to avoid detection. She approached the monsters from
behind, where their archers were gathered.


Before the Urgals realized what was happening, Eragon lopped off the heads of two
archers, and Saphira disemboweled three others. She took off again as alarms sounded,
quickly soaring out of bow range.

They repeated the tactic on a different flank of the army. Saphira’s stealth and speed,
combined with the dim lighting, made it nearly impossible for the Urgals to predict where
she would strike next. Eragon used his bow whenever Saphira was in the air, but he
quickly ran out of arrows. Soon the only thing left in his quiver was magic, which he
wanted to keep in reserve until it was desperately needed.

Saphira’s flights over the combatants gave Eragon a unique understanding of how the
battle was progressing. There were three separate fights raging in Farthen Dûr, one by
each open tunnel. The Urgals were disadvantaged by the dispersal of their forces and
their inability to get all of their army out of the tunnels at once. Even so, the Varden and
dwarves could not keep the monsters from advancing and were slowly being driven back
toward Tronjheim. The defenders seemed insignificant against the mass of Urgals, whose
numbers continued to increase as they poured out of the tunnels.

The Urgals had organized themselves around several standards, each representing a clan,
but it was unclear who commanded them overall. The clans paid no attention to each
other, as if they were receiving orders from elsewhere. Eragon wished he knew who was
in charge so he and Saphira could kill him.

Remembering Ajihad’s orders, he began relaying information to the Twins. They were
interested by what he had to say about the Urgals’ apparent lack of a leader and
questioned him closely. The exchange was smooth, if brief. The Twins told him,You’re
ordered to assist Hrothgar; the fight goes badly for him.

Understood,Eragon responded.

Saphira swiftly flew to the besieged dwarves, swooping low over Hrothgar. Arrayed in
golden armor, the dwarf king stood at the fore of a small knot of his kin, wielding
Volund, the hammer of his ancestors. His white beard caught the lantern light as he
looked up at Saphira. Admiration glinted in his eyes.

Saphira landed beside the dwarves and faced the oncoming Urgals. Even the bravest Kull
quailed before her ferocity, allowing the dwarves to surge forward. Eragon tried to keep
Saphira safe. Her left flank was protected by the dwarves, but to her front and right raged
a sea of enemies. He showed no mercy on those and took every advantage he could, using
magic whenever Zar’roc could not serve him. A spear bounced off his shield, denting it
and leaving him with a bruised shoulder. Shaking off the pain, he cleaved open an
Urgal’s skull, mixing brains with metal and bone.

He was in awe of Hrothgar—who, though he was ancient by both the standards of men
and dwarves, was still undiminished on the battlefield. No Urgal, Kull or not, could stand
before the dwarf king and his guards and live. Every time Volund struck, it sounded the


gong of death for another enemy. After a spear downed one of his warriors, Hrothgar
grabbed the spear himself and, with astounding strength, hurled it completely through its
owner twenty yards away. Such heroism emboldened Eragon to ever greater risks,
seeking to hold his own with the mighty king.

Eragon lunged at a giant Kull nearly out of reach and almost fell from Saphira’s saddle.
Before he could recover, the Kull darted past Saphira’s defenses and swung his sword.
The brunt of the blow caught Eragon on the side of his helm, throwing him backward and
making his vision flicker and his ears ring thunderously.

Stunned, he tried to pull himself upright, but the Kull had already prepared for another
blow. As the Kull’s arm descended, a slim steel blade suddenly sprouted from his chest.
Howling, the monster toppled to the side. In his place stood Angela.

The witch wore a long red cape over outlandish flanged armor enameled black and green.
She bore a strange two-handed weapon—a long wooden shaft with a sword blade
attached to each end. Angela winked at Eragon mischievously, then dashed away,
spinning her staff-sword like a dervish. Close behind her was Solembum in the form of a
young shaggy-haired boy. He held a small black dagger, sharp teeth bared in a feral snarl.

Still dazed from his battering, Eragon managed to straighten himself in the saddle.
Saphira jumped into the air and wheeled high above, letting him recuperate. He scanned
Farthen Dûr’s plains and saw, to his dismay, that all three battles were going badly.
Neither Ajihad, Jörmundur, nor Hrothgar could stop the Urgals. There were simply too
many.

Eragon wondered how many Urgals he could kill at once with magic. He knew his limits
fairly well. If he were to kill enough to make a difference . . . it would probably be
suicide. That might be what it took to win.

The fighting continued for one endless hour after another. The Varden and dwarves were
exhausted, but the Urgals remained fresh with reinforcements.

It was a nightmare for Eragon. Though he and Saphira fought their hardest, there was
always another Urgal to take the place of the one just killed. His whole body hurt—
especially his head. Every time he used magic he lost a little more energy. Saphira was in
better condition, though her wings were punctured with small wounds.

As he parried a blow, the Twins contacted him urgently.There are loud noises under
Tronjheim. It sounds like Urgals are trying to dig into the city! We need you and Arya to
collapse any tunnels they’re excavating.

Eragon dispatched his opponent with a sword thrust.We’ll be right there. He looked for
Arya and saw her engaged with a knot of struggling Urgals. Saphira quickly forged a path
to the elf, leaving a pile of crumpled bodies in her wake. Eragon extended his hand and
said, “Get on!”


Arya jumped onto Saphira’s back without hesitation. She wrapped her right arm around
Eragon’s waist, wielding her bloodstained sword with the other. As Saphira crouched to
take off, an Urgal ran at her, howling, then lifted an ax and smashed her in the chest.

Saphira roared with pain and lurched forward, feet leaving the ground. Her wings
snapped open, straining to keep them from crashing as she veered wildly to one side,
right wingtip scraping the ground. Below them, the Urgal pulled back his arm to throw
the ax. But Arya raised her palm, shouting, and an emerald ball of energy shot from her
hand, killing the Urgal. With a colossal heave of her shoulders, Saphira righted herself,
barely making it over the heads of the warriors. She pulled away from the battlefield with
powerful wing strokes and rasping breath.

Are you all right?asked Eragon, concerned. He could not see where she had been struck.

I’ll live,she said grimly,but the front of my armor has been crushed together.It hurts my
chest, and I’m having trouble moving.

Can you get us to the dragonhold?

. . . We’ll see.

Eragon explained Saphira’s condition to Arya. “I’ll stay and help Saphira when we land,”
she offered. “Once she is free of the armor, I will join you.”

“Thank you,” he said. The flight was laborious for Saphira; she glided whenever she
could. When they reached the dragonhold, she dropped heavily to Isidar Mithrim, where
the Twins were supposed to be watching the battle, but it was empty. Eragon jumped to
the floor and winced as he saw the damage the Urgal had done. Four of the metal plates
on Saphira’s chest had been hammered together, restricting her ability to bend and
breathe. “Stay well,” he said, putting a hand on her side, then ran out the archway.

He stopped and swore. He was at the top of Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. Because of
his worry for Saphira, he had not considered how he would get to Tronjheim’s base—
where the Urgals were breaking in. There was no time to climb down. He looked at the
narrow trough to the right of the stairs, then grabbed one of the leather pads and threw
himself down on it.

The stone slide was smooth as lacquered wood. With the leather underneath him, he
accelerated almost instantly to a frightening speed, the walls blurring and the curve of the
slide pressing him high against the wall. Eragon lay completely flat so he would go
faster. The air rushed past his helm, making it vibrate like a weather vane in a gale. The
trough was too confined for him, and he was perilously close to flying out, but as long as
he kept his arms and legs still, he was safe.

It was a swift descent, but it still took him nearly ten minutes to reach the bottom. The
slide leveled out at the end and sent him skidding halfway across the huge carnelian floor.


When he finally came to a stop, he was too dizzy to walk. His first attempt to stand made
him nauseated, so he curled up, head in his hands, and waited for things to stop spinning.
When he felt better, he stood and warily looked around.

The great chamber was completely deserted, the silence unsettling. Rosy light filtered
down from Isidar Mithrim. He faltered—Where was he supposed to go?—and cast out
his mind for the Twins. Nothing. He froze as loud knocking echoed through Tronjheim.

An explosion split the air. A long slab of the chamber floor buckled and blew thirty feet
up. Needles of rocks flew outward as it crashed down. Eragon stumbled back, stunned,
groping for Zar’roc. The twisted shapes of Urgals clambered out of the hole in the floor.

Eragon hesitated. Should he flee? Or should he stay and try to close the tunnel? Even if
he managed to seal it before the Urgals attacked him, what if Tronjheim was already
breached elsewhere? He could not find all the places in time to prevent the city-mountain
from being captured.But if I run to one of Tronjheim’s gates and blast it open, the Varden
could retake Tronjheim without having to siege it. Before he could decide, a tall man
garbed entirely in black armor emerged from the tunnel and looked directly at him.

It was Durza.

The Shade carried his pale blade marked with the scratch from Ajihad. A black
roundshield with a crimson ensign rested on his arm. His dark helmet was richly
decorated, like a general’s, and a long snakeskin cloak billowed around him. Madness
burned in his maroon eyes, the madness of one who enjoys power and finds himself in
the position to use it.

Eragon knew he was neither fast enough nor strong enough to escape the fiend before
him. He immediately warned Saphira, though he knew it was impossible for her to rescue
him. He dropped into a crouch and quickly reviewed what Brom had told him about
fighting another magic user. It was not encouraging. And Ajihad had said that Shades
could only be destroyed by a thrust through the heart.

Durza gazed at him contemptuously and said, “Kaz jtierl trazhid! Otrag bagh.” The
Urgals eyed Eragon suspiciously and formed a circle around the perimeter of the room.
Durza slowly approached Eragon with a triumphant expression. “So, my young Rider, we
meet again. You were foolish to escape from me in Gil’ead. It will only make things
worse for you in the end.”

“You’ll never capture me alive,” growled Eragon.

“Is that so?” asked the Shade, raising an eyebrow. The light from the star sapphire gave
his skin a ghastly tint. “I don’t see your ‘friend’ Murtagh around to help you. You can’t
stop me now. No one can!”


Fear touched Eragon.How does he know about Murtagh? Putting all the derision he could
into his voice, he jeered, “How did you like being shot?”

Durza’s face tightened momentarily. “I will be repaid in blood for that. Now tell me
where your dragon is hiding.”

“Never.”

The Shade’s countenance darkened. “Then I will force it from you!” His sword whistled
through the air. The moment Eragon caught the blade on his shield, a mental probe
spiked deep into his thoughts. Fighting to protect his consciousness, he shoved Durza
back and attacked with his own mind.

Eragon battered with all his strength against the iron-hard defenses surrounding Durza’s
mind, but to no avail. He swung Zar’roc, trying to catch Durza off guard. The Shade
knocked the blow aside effortlessly, then stabbed in return with lightning speed.

The point of the sword caught Eragon in the ribs, piercing his mail and driving out his
breath. The mail slipped, though, and the blade missed his side by the width of a wire.
The distraction was all Durza needed to break into Eragon’s mind and begin taking
control.

“No!” cried Eragon, throwing himself at the Shade. His face contorted as he grappled
with Durza, yanking on his sword arm. Durza tried to cut Eragon’s hand, but it was
protected by the mail-backed glove, which sent the blade glancing downward. As Eragon
kicked his leg, Durza snarled and swept his black shield around, knocking him to the
floor. Eragon tasted blood in his mouth; his neck throbbed. Ignoring his injuries, he rolled
over and hurled his shield at Durza. Despite the Shade’s superior speed, the heavy shield
clipped him on the hip. As Durza stumbled, Eragon caught him on the upper arm with
Zar’roc. A line of blood traced down the Shade’s arm.

Eragon thrust at the Shade with his mind and drove through Durza’s weakened defenses.
A flood of images suddenly engulfed him, rushing through his consciousness—

Durza as a young boy living as a nomad with his parents on the empty plains. The tribe
abandoned them and called his father “oathbreaker.” Only it was not Durza then, but
Carsaib—the name his mother crooned while combing his hair. . . .

The Shade reeled wildly, face twisted in pain. Eragon tried to control the torrent of
memories, but the force of them was overwhelming.


Standing on a hill over the graves of his parents, weeping that the men had not killed him
as well. Then turning and stumbling blindly away, into the desert. . . .

Durza faced Eragon. Terrible hatred flowed from his maroon eyes. Eragon was on one
knee—almost standing—struggling to seal his mind.

How the old man looked when he first saw Carsaib lying near death on a sand dune. The
days it had taken Carsaib to recover and the fear he felt upon discovering that his
rescuer was a sorcerer. How he had pleaded to be taught the control of spirits. How
Haeg had finally agreed. Called him “Desert Rat.”. . .

Eragon was standing now. Durza charged . . . sword raised . . . shield ignored in his fury.

The days spent training under the scorching sun, always alert for the lizards they caught
for food. How his power slowly grew, giving him pride and confidence. The weeks spent
nursing his sick master after a failed spell. His joy when Haeg recovered . . .

There was not enough time to react . . . not enough time. . . .

The bandits who attacked during the night, killing Haeg. The rage Carsaib had felt and
the spirits he had summoned for vengeance. But the spirits were stronger than he
expected. They turned on him, possessing mind and body. He had screamed. He was—I
AM DURZA!

The sword smote heavily across Eragon’s back, cutting through both mail and skin. He
screamed as pain blasted through him, forcing him to his knees. Agony bowed his body
in half and obliterated all thought. He swayed, barely conscious, hot blood running down
the small of his back. Durza said something he could not hear.

In anguish, Eragon raised his eyes to the heavens, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Everything had failed. The Varden and dwarves were destroyed. He was defeated.
Saphira would give herself up for his sake—she had done it before—and Arya would be


recaptured or killed. Why had it ended like this? What justice could this be? All was for
nothing.

As he looked at Isidar Mithrim far above his tortured frame, a flash of light erupted in his
eyes, blinding him. A second later, the chamber rang with a deafening report. Then his
eyes cleared, and he gaped with disbelief.

The star sapphire had shattered. An expanding torus of huge dagger-like pieces
plummeted toward the distant floor—the shimmering shards near the walls. In the center
of the chamber, hurtling downward headfirst, was Saphira. Her jaws were open and from
between them erupted a great tongue of flame, bright yellow and tinged with blue. On her
back was Arya: hair billowing wildly, arm uplifted, palm glowing with a nimbus of green
magic.

Time seemed to slow as Eragon saw Durza tilt his head toward the ceiling. First shock,
then anger contorted the Shade’s face. Sneering defiantly, he raised his hand and pointed
at Saphira, a word forming on his lips.

A hidden reserve of strength suddenly welled up inside Eragon, dredged from the deepest
part of his being. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. He plunged through the
barrier in his mind and took hold of the magic. All his pain and rage focused on one
word:

“Brisingr!”

Zar’roc blazed with bloody light, heatless flames running along it . . .

He lunged forward . . .

And stabbed Durza in the heart.

Durza looked down with shock at the blade protruding from his breast. His mouth was
open, but instead of words, an unearthly howl burst from him. His sword dropped from
nerveless fingers. He grasped Zar’roc as if to pull it out, but it was lodged firmly in him.

Then Durza’s skin turned transparent. Under it was neither flesh nor bone, but swirling
patterns of darkness. He shrieked even louder as the darkness pulsated, splitting his skin.
With one last cry, Durza was rent from head to toe, releasing the darkness, which
separated into three entities who flew through Tronjheim’s walls and out of Farthen Dûr.
The Shade was gone.

Bereft of strength, Eragon fell back with arms outstretched. Above him, Saphira and Arya
had nearly reached the floor—it looked as if they were going to smash into it with the
deadly remains of Isidar Mithrim. As his sight faded, Saphira, Arya, the myriad
fragments—all seemed to stop falling and hang motionless in the air.


THEMOURNINGSAGE

Snatches of the Shade’s memories continued to flash through Eragon. A whirlwind of
dark events and emotions overwhelmed him, making it impossible to think. Submerged in
the maelstrom, he knew neither who nor where he was. He was too weak to cleanse
himself of the alien presence that clouded his mind. Violent, cruel images from the
Shade’s past exploded behind his eyes until his spirit cried out in anguish at the bloody
sights.

A pile of bodies rose before him . . . innocents slaughtered by the Shade’s orders. He saw
still more corpses—whole villages of them—taken from life by the sorcerer’s hand or
word. There was no escape from the carnage that surrounded him. He wavered like a
candle flame, unable to withstand the tide of evil. He prayed for someone to lift him out
of the nightmare, but there was no one to guide him. If only he could remember what he
was supposed to be: boy or man, villain or hero, Shade or Rider; all was jumbled
together in a meaningless frenzy. He was lost, completely and utterly, in the roiling mass.

Suddenly a cluster of his own memories burst through the dismal cloud left by the
Shade’s malevolent mind. All the events since he had found Saphira’s egg came to him in
the cold light of revelation. His accomplishments and failures were displayed equally. He
had lost much that was dear to him, yet fate had given him rare and great gifts; for the
first time, he was proud of simply who he was. As if in response to his brief self-
confidence, the Shade’s smothering blackness assaulted him anew. His identity trailed
into the void as uncertainty and fear consumed his perceptions. Who was he to think he
could challenge the powers of Alagaësia and live?

He fought against the Shade’s sinister thoughts, weakly at first, then more strongly. He
whispered words of the ancient language and found they gave him enough strength to
withstand the shadow blurring his mind. Though his defenses faltered dangerously, he
slowly began to draw his shattered consciousness into a small bright shell around his
core. Outside his mind he was aware of a pain so great it threatened to blot out his very
life, but something—or someone—seemed to keep it at bay.

He was still too weak to clear his mind completely, but he was lucid enough to examine
his experiences since Carvahall. Where would he go now . . . and who would show him
the way? Without Brom, there was no one to guide or teach him.

Come to me.

He recoiled at the touch of another consciousness—one so vast and powerful it was like a
mountain looming over him. This was who was blocking the pain, he realized. Like
Arya’s mind, music ran through this one: deep amber-gold chords that throbbed with
magisterial melancholy.

Finally, he dared ask,Who . . . who are you?


One who would help.With a flicker of an unspoken thought, the Shade’s influence was
brushed aside like an unwanted cobweb. Freed from the oppressive weight, Eragon let
his mind expand until he touched a barrier beyond which he could not pass.I have
protected you as best I can, but you are so far away I can do no more than shield your
sanity from the pain.

Again:Who are you to do this?

There was a low rumble.I am Osthato Chetowä, the Mourning Sage. And Togira Ikonoka,
the Cripple Who Is Whole. Come to me, Eragon, for I have answers to all you ask. You
will not be safe until you find me.

But how can I find you if I don’t know where you are?he asked, despairing.

Trust Arya and go with her to Ellesméra—I will be there. I have waited many seasons, so
do not delay or it may soon be too late. . . . You are greater than you know, Eragon.
Think of what you have done and rejoice, for you have rid the land of a great evil. You
have wrought a deed no one else could. Many are in your debt.

The stranger was right; what he had accomplished was worthy of honor, of recognition.
No matter what his trials might be in the future, he was no longer just a pawn in the game
of power. He had transcended that and was something else, something more. He had
become what Ajihad wanted: an authority independent of any king or leader.

He sensed approval as he reached that conclusion.You are learning,said the Mourning
Sage, drawing nearer. A vision passed from him to Eragon: a burst of color blossomed in
his mind, resolving into a stooped figure dressed in white, standing on a sun-drenched
stone cliff.It is time for you to rest, Eragon. When you wake, do not speak of me to
anyone,said the figure kindly, face obscured by a silver nimbus. Remember, you must go
to the elves. Now, sleep. . . .He raised a hand, as if in benediction, and peace crept
through Eragon.

His last thought was that Brom would have been proud of him.

“Wake,” commanded the voice. “Awake, Eragon, for you have slept far too long.” He
stirred unwillingly, loath to listen. The warmth that surrounded him was too comfortable
to leave. The voice sounded again. “Rise, Argetlam! You are needed!”

He reluctantly forced his eyes open and found himself on a long bed, swathed in soft
blankets. Angela sat in a chair beside him, staring at his face intently. “How do you
feel?” she asked.

Disoriented and confused, he let his eyes roam over the small room. “I . . . I don’t know,”
he said, his mouth dry and sore.


“Then don’t move. You should conserve your strength,” said Angela, running a hand
through her curly hair. Eragon saw that she still wore her flanged armor. Why was that?
A fit of coughing made him dizzy, lightheaded, and ache all over. His feverish limbs felt
heavy. Angela lifted a gilt horn from the floor and held it to his lips. “Here, drink.”

Cool mead ran down his throat, refreshing him. Warmth bloomed in his stomach and rose
to his cheeks. He coughed again, which worsened his throbbing head. How did I get
here? There was a battle . . . we were losing . . . then Durza and . . .“Saphira!” he
exclaimed, sitting upright. He sagged back as his head swam and clenched his eyes,
feeling sick. “What about Saphira? Is she all right? The Urgals were winning . . . she was
falling. And Arya!”

“They lived,” assured Angela, “and have been waiting for you to wake. Do you wish to
see them?” He nodded feebly. Angela got up and threw open the door. Arya and Murtagh
filed inside. Saphira snaked her head into the room after them, her body too big to fit
through the doorway. Her chest vibrated as she hummed deeply, eyes sparkling.

Smiling, Eragon touched her thoughts with relief and gratitude.It is good to see you well,
little one, she said tenderly.

And you too, but how—?

The others want to explain it, so I will let them.

You breathed fire!I saw you!

Yes,she said with pride.

He smiled weakly, still confused, then looked at Arya and Murtagh. Both of them were
bandaged: Arya on her arm, Murtagh around his head. Murtagh grinned widely. “About
time you were up. We’ve been sitting in the hall for hours.”

“What . . . what happened?” asked Eragon.

Arya looked sad. But Murtagh crowed, “We won! It was incredible! When the Shade’s
spirits—if that’s what they were—flew across Farthen Dûr, the Urgals ceased fighting to
watch them go. It was as though they were released from a spell then, because their clans
suddenly turned and attacked each other. Their entire army disintegrated within minutes.
We routed them after that!”

“They’re all dead?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh shook his head. “No, many of them escaped into the tunnels. The Varden and
dwarves are busy ferreting them out right now, but it’s going to take a while. I was
helping until an Urgal banged me on the head and I was sent back here.”


“They aren’t going to lock you up again?”

His face grew sober. “No one really cares about that right now. A lot of Varden and
dwarves were killed; the survivors are busy trying to recover from the battle. But at least
you have cause to be happy. You’re a hero! Everyone’s talking about how you killed
Durza. If it hadn’t been for you, we would have lost.”

Eragon was troubled by his words but pushed them away for later consideration. “Where
were the Twins? They weren’t where they were supposed to be—I couldn’t contact them.
I needed their help.”

Murtagh shrugged. “I was told they bravely fought off a group of Urgals that broke into
Tronjheim somewhere else. They were probably too busy to talk with you.”

That seemed wrong for some reason, but Eragon could not decide why. He turned to
Arya. Her large bright eyes had been fixed upon him the entire time. “How come you
didn’t crash? You and Saphira were . . .” His voice trailed off.

She said slowly, “When you warned Saphira of Durza, I was still trying to remove her
damaged armor. By the time it was off, it was too late to slide down Vol Turin—you
would have been captured before I reached the bottom. Besides, Durza would have killed
you before letting me rescue you.” Regret entered her voice, “So I did the one thing I
could to distract him: I broke the star sapphire.”

And I carried her down,added Saphira.

Eragon struggled to understand as another bout of lightheadedness made him close his
eyes. “But why didn’t any of the pieces hit you or me?”

“I didn’t allow them to. When we were almost to the floor, I held them motionless in the
air, then slowly lowered them to the floor—else they would have shattered into a
thousand pieces and killed you,” stated Arya simply. Her words betrayed the power
within her.

Angela added sourly, “Yes, and it almost killed you as well. It’s taken all of my skill to
keep the two of you alive.”

A twinge of unease shot through Eragon, matching the intensity of his throbbing head.My
back . . . But he felt no bandages there. “How long have I been here?” he asked with
trepidation.

“Only a day and a half,” answered Angela. “You’re lucky I was around, otherwise it
would’ve taken you weeks to heal—if you had even lived.” Alarmed, Eragon pushed the
blankets off his torso and twisted around to feel his back. Angela caught his wrist with
her small hand, worry reflected in her eyes. “Eragon . . . you have to understand, my


power is not like yours or Arya’s. It depends on the use of herbs and potions. There are
limits to what I can do, especially with such a large—”

He yanked his hand out of her grip and reached back, fingers groping. The skin on his
back was smooth and warm, flawless. Hard muscles flexed under his fingertips as he
moved. He slid his hand toward the base of his neck and unexpectedly felt a hard bump
about a half-inch wide. He followed it down his back with growing horror. Durza’s blow
had left him with a huge, ropy scar, stretching from his right shoulder to the opposite hip.

Pity showed on Arya’s face as she murmured, “You have paid a terrible price for your
deed, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

Murtagh laughed harshly. “Yes. Now you’re just like me.”

Dismay filled Eragon, and he closed his eyes. He was disfigured. Then he remembered
something from when he was unconscious . . . a figure in white who had helped him. A
cripple who was whole—Togira Ikonoka. He had said,Think of what you have done and
rejoice, for you have rid the land of a great evil. You have wrought a deed no one else
could. Many are in your debt. . . .

Come to me Eragon, for I have answers to all you ask.

A measure of peace and satisfaction consoled Eragon.

I will come.

END OFBOOKONE
THE STORY WILL CONTINUE IN

Eldest,

BOOKTWO OFINHERITANCE
PRONUNCIATION
Ajihad—AH-zhi-hod
Alagaësia—al-uh-GAY-zee-uh


Arya—AR-ee-uh
Carvahall—CAR-vuh-hall
Dras-Leona—DRAHS-lee-OH-nuh
Du Weldenvarden—doo WELL-den-VAR-den
Eragon—EHR-uh-gahn
Farthen Dûr—FAR-then DURE (durerhymes withlure )
Galbatorix—gal-buh-TOR-icks
Gil’ead—GILL-ee-id
Jeod—JODE (rhymes withload )
Murtagh—MUR-tag (murrhymes withpurr )
Ra’zac—RAA-zack
Saphira—suh-FEAR-uh
Shruikan—SHREW-kin
Teirm—TEERM
Tronjheim—TRONJ-heem
Vrael—VRAIL
Yazuac—YA-zoo-ack
Zar’roc—ZAR-rock
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS