INHERITANCE

BOOKONE

Christopher Paolini

ALFREDA.KNOPF

New York

This book is dedicated to my mom, for showing me the magic in the world;

to my dad, for revealing the man behind the curtain.

And also to my sister, Angela, for helping when I’m “blue.”

PROLOGUE:

SHADE OF FEAR

Wind howled through the night, carrying a scent that would change the world. A tall

Shade lifted his head and sniffed the air. He looked human except for his crimson hair

and maroon eyes.

He blinked in surprise. The message had been correct: they were here. Or was it a trap?

He weighed the odds, then said icily, “Spread out; hide behind trees and bushes. Stop

whoever is coming . . . or die.”

Around him shuffled twelve Urgals with short swords and round iron shields painted with

black symbols. They resembled men with bowed legs and thick, brutish arms made for

crushing. A pair of twisted horns grew above their small ears. The monsters hurried into

the brush, grunting as they hid. Soon the rustling quieted and the forest was silent again.

The Shade peered around a thick tree and looked up the trail. It was too dark for any

human to see, but for him the faint moonlight was like sunshine streaming between the

trees; every detail was clear and sharp to his searching gaze. He remained unnaturally

quiet, a long pale sword in his hand. A wire-thin scratch curved down the blade. The

weapon was thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, yet stout enough to hack through

the hardest armor.

The Urgals could not see as well as the Shade; they groped like blind beggars, fumbling

with their weapons. An owl screeched, cutting through the silence. No one relaxed until

the bird flew past. Then the monsters shivered in the cold night; one snapped a twig with

his heavy boot. The Shade hissed in anger, and the Urgals shrank back, motionless. He

suppressed his distaste—they smelled like fetid meat—and turned away. They were tools,

nothing more.

The Shade forced back his impatience as the minutes became hours. The scent must have

wafted far ahead of its owners. He did not let the Urgals get up or warm themselves. He

denied himself those luxuries, too, and stayed behind the tree, watching the trail. Another

gust of wind rushed through the forest. The smell was stronger this time. Excited, he

lifted a thin lip in a snarl.

“Get ready,” he whispered, his whole body vibrating. The tip of his sword moved in

small circles. It had taken many plots and much pain to bring himself to this moment. It

would not do to lose control now.

Eyes brightened under the Urgals’ thick brows, and the creatures gripped their weapons

tighter. Ahead of them, the Shade heard a clink as something hard struck a loose stone.

Faint smudges emerged from the darkness and advanced down the trail.

Three white horses with riders cantered toward the ambush, their heads held high and

proud, their coats rippling in the moonlight like liquid silver.

On the first horse was an elf with pointed ears and elegantly slanted eyebrows. His build

was slim but strong, like a rapier. A powerful bow was slung on his back. A sword

pressed against his side opposite a quiver of arrows fletched with swan feathers.

The last rider had the same fair face and angled features as the other. He carried a long

spear in his right hand and a white dagger at his belt. A helm of extraordinary

craftsmanship, wrought with amber and gold, rested on his head.

Between these two rode a raven-haired elven lady, who surveyed her surroundings with

poise. Framed by long black locks, her deep eyes shone with a driving force. Her clothes

were unadorned, yet her beauty was undiminished. At her side was a sword, and on her

back a long bow with a quiver. She carried in her lap a pouch that she frequently looked

at, as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

One of the elves spoke quietly, but the Shade could not hear what was said. The lady

answered with obvious authority, and her guards switched places. The one wearing the

helm took the lead, shifting his spear to a readier grip. They passed the Shade’s hiding

place and the first few Urgals without suspicion.

The Shade was already savoring his victory when the wind changed direction and swept

toward the elves, heavy with the Urgals’ stench. The horses snorted with alarm and

tossed their heads. The riders stiffened, eyes flashing from side to side, then wheeled

their mounts around and galloped away.

The lady’s horse surged forward, leaving her guards far behind. Forsaking their hiding,

the Urgals stood and released a stream of black arrows. The Shade jumped out from

behind the tree, raised his right hand, and shouted, “Garjzla!”

A red bolt flashed from his palm toward the elven lady, illuminating the trees with a

bloody light. It struck her steed, and the horse toppled with a high-pitched squeal,

plowing into the ground chest-first. She leapt off the animal with inhuman speed, landed

lightly, then glanced back for her guards.

The Urgals’ deadly arrows quickly brought down the two elves. They fell from the noble

horses, blood pooling in the dirt. As the Urgals rushed to the slain elves, the Shade

screamed, “After her! She is the one I want!” The monsters grunted and rushed down the

trail.

A cry tore from the elf’s lips as she saw her dead companions. She took a step toward

them, then cursed her enemies and bounded into the forest.

While the Urgals crashed through the trees, the Shade climbed a piece of granite that

jutted above them. From his perch he could see all of the surrounding forest. He raised

his hand and uttered, “Böetq istalri!” and a quarter-mile section of the forest exploded

into flames. Grimly he burned one section after another until there was a ring of fire, a

half-league across, around the ambush site. The flames looked like a molten crown

resting on the forest. Satisfied, he watched the ring carefully, in case it should falter.

The band of fire thickened, contracting the area the Urgals had to search. Suddenly, the

Shade heard shouts and a coarse scream. Through the trees he saw three of his charges

fall in a pile, mortally wounded. He caught a glimpse of the elf running from the

remaining Urgals.

She fled toward the craggy piece of granite at a tremendous speed. The Shade examined

the ground twenty feet below, then jumped and landed nimbly in front of her. She

skidded around and sped back to the trail. Black Urgal blood dripped from her sword,

staining the pouch in her hand.

The horned monsters came out of the forest and hemmed her in, blocking the only escape

routes. Her head whipped around as she tried to find a way out. Seeing none, she drew

herself up with regal disdain. The Shade approached her with a raised hand, allowing

himself to enjoy her helplessness.

“Get her.”

As the Urgals surged forward, the elf pulled open the pouch, reached into it, and then let

it drop to the ground. In her hands was a large sapphire stone that reflected the angry light

of the fires. She raised it over her head, lips forming frantic words. Desperate, the Shade

barked, “Garjzla!”

A ball of red flame sprang from his hand and flew toward the elf, fast as an arrow. But he

was too late. A flash of emerald light briefly illuminated the forest, and the stone

vanished. Then the red fire smote her and she collapsed.

The Shade howled in rage and stalked forward, flinging his sword at a tree. It passed

halfway through the trunk, where it stuck, quivering. He shot nine bolts of energy from

his palm—which killed the Urgals instantly—then ripped his sword free and strode to the

elf.

Prophecies of revenge, spoken in a wretched language only he knew, rolled from his

tongue. He clenched his thin hands and glared at the sky. The cold stars stared back,

unwinking, otherworldly watchers. Disgust curled his lip before he turned back to the

unconscious elf.

Her beauty, which would have entranced any mortal man, held no charm for him. He

confirmed that the stone was gone, then retrieved his horse from its hiding place among

the trees. After tying the elf onto the saddle, he mounted the charger and made his way

out of the woods.

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

DISCOVERY

Eragon knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks with a practiced

eye. The prints told him that the deer had been in the meadow only a half-hour before.

Soon they would bed down. His target, a small doe with a pronounced limp in her left

forefoot, was still with the herd. He was amazed she had made it so far without a wolf or

bear catching her.

The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted

over the mountains that surrounded him, its edges glowing with ruddy light cast from the

harvest moon cradled between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains from

stolid glaciers and glistening snowpacks. A brooding mist crept along the valley’s floor,

almost thick enough to obscure his feet.

Eragon was fifteen, less than a year from manhood. Dark eyebrows rested above his

intense brown eyes. His clothes were worn from work. A hunting knife with a bone

handle was sheathed at his belt, and a buckskin tube protected his yew bow from the mist.

He carried a wood-frame pack.

The deer had led him deep into the Spine, a range of untamed mountains that extended up

and down the land of Alagaësia. Strange tales and men often came from those mountains,

usually boding ill. Despite that, Eragon did not fear the Spine—he was the only hunter

near Carvahall who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses.

It was the third night of the hunt, and his food was half gone. If he did not fell the doe, he

would be forced to return home empty-handed. His family needed the meat for the

rapidly approaching winter and could not afford to buy it in Carvahall.

Eragon stood with quiet assurance in the dusky moonlight, then strode into the forest

toward a glen where he was sure the deer would rest. The trees blocked the sky from

view and cast feathery shadows on the ground. He looked at the tracks only occasionally;

he knew the way.

At the glen, he strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one,

holding the others in his left hand. The moonlight revealed twenty or so motionless lumps

where the deer lay in the grass. The doe he wanted was at the edge of the herd, her left

foreleg stretched out awkwardly.

Eragon slowly crept closer, keeping the bow ready. All his work of the past three days

had led to this moment. He took a last steadying breath and—an explosion shattered the

night.

The herd bolted. Eragon lunged forward, racing through the grass as a fiery wind surged

past his cheek. He slid to a stop and loosed an arrow at the bounding doe. It missed by a

finger’s breadth and hissed into darkness. He cursed and spun around, instinctively

nocking another arrow.

Behind him, where the deer had been, smoldered a large circle of grass and trees. Many

of the pines stood bare of their needles. The grass outside the charring was flattened. A

wisp of smoke curled in the air, carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radius

lay a polished blue stone. Mist snaked across the scorched area and swirled insubstantial

tendrils over the stone.

Eragon watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only thing that moved was

the mist. Cautiously, he released the tension from his bow and moved forward. Moonlight

cast him in pale shadow as he stopped before the stone. He nudged it with an arrow, then

jumped back. Nothing happened, so he warily picked it up.

Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark

blue, except for thin veins of white that spiderwebbed across it. The stone was cool and

frictionless under his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it weighed

several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have.

Eragon found the stone both beautiful and frightening. Where did it come from? Does it

have a purpose? Then a more disturbing thought came to him: Was it sent here by

accident, or am I meant to have it? If he had learned anything from the old stories, it was to treat magic, and those who used it, with great caution.

But what should I do with the stone? It would be tiresome to carry, and there was a chance it was dangerous. It might be better to leave it behind. A flicker of indecision ran through

him, and he almost dropped it, but something stayed his hand. At the very least, it might

pay for some food, he decided with a shrug, tucking the stone into his pack.

The glen was too exposed to make a safe camp, so he slipped back into the forest and

spread his bedroll beneath the upturned roots of a fallen tree. After a cold dinner of bread

and cheese, he wrapped himself in blankets and fell asleep, pondering what had occurred.

PALANCARVALLEY

The sun rose the next morning with a glorious conflagration of pink and yellow. The air

was fresh, sweet, and very cold. Ice edged the streams, and small pools were completely

frozen over. After a breakfast of porridge, Eragon returned to the glen and examined the

charred area. The morning light revealed no new details, so he started for home.

The rough game trail was faintly worn and, in places, nonexistent. Because it had been

forged by animals, it often backtracked and took long detours. Yet for all its flaws, it was

still the fastest way out of the mountains.

The Spine was one of the only places that King Galbatorix could not call his own. Stories

were still told about how half his army disappeared after marching into its ancient forest.

A cloud of misfortune and bad luck seemed to hang over it. Though the trees grew tall

and the sky shone brightly, few people could stay in the Spine for long without suffering

an accident. Eragon was one of those few—not through any particular gift, it seemed to

him, but because of persistent vigilance and sharp reflexes. He had hiked in the

mountains for years, yet he was still wary of them. Every time he thought they had

surrendered their secrets, something happened to upset his understanding of them—like

the stone’s appearance.

He kept up a brisk pace, and the leagues steadily disappeared. In late evening he arrived

at the edge of a precipitous ravine. The Anora River rushed by far below, heading to

Palancar Valley. Gorged with hundreds of tiny streams, the river was a brute force,

battling against the rocks and boulders that barred its way. A low rumble filled the air.

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

It grew colder over the next day and a half. Eragon traveled quickly and saw little of the

wary wildlife. A bit past noon, he heard the Igualda Falls blanketing everything with the

dull sound of a thousand splashes. The trail led him onto a moist slate outcropping, which

the river sped past, flinging itself into empty air and down mossy cliffs.

Before him lay Palancar Valley, exposed like an unrolled map. The base of the Igualda

Falls, more than a half-mile below, was the northernmost point of the valley. A little

ways from the falls was Carvahall, a cluster of brown buildings. White smoke rose from

the chimneys, defiant of the wilderness around it. At this height, farms were small square

patches no bigger than the end of his finger. The land around them was tan or sandy,

where dead grass swayed in the wind. The Anora River wound from the falls toward

Palancar’s southern end, reflecting great strips of sunlight. Far in the distance it flowed

past the village Therinsford and the lonely mountain Utgard. Beyond that, he knew only

that it turned north and ran to the sea.

After a pause, Eragon left the outcropping and started down the trail, grimacing at the

descent. When he arrived at the bottom, soft dusk was creeping over everything, blurring

colors and shapes into gray masses. Carvahall’s lights shimmered nearby in the twilight;

the houses cast long shadows. Aside from Therinsford, Carvahall was the only village in

Palancar Valley. The settlement was secluded and surrounded by harsh, beautiful land.

Few traveled here except merchants and trappers.

The village was composed of stout log buildings with low roofs—some thatched, others

shingled. Smoke billowed from the chimneys, giving the air a woody smell. The

buildings had wide porches where people gathered to talk and conduct business.

Occasionally a window brightened as a candle or lamp was lit. Eragon heard men talking

loudly in the evening air while wives scurried to fetch their husbands, scolding them for

being late.

Eragon wove his way between the houses to the butcher’s shop, a broad, thick-beamed

building. Overhead, the chimney belched black smoke.

He pushed the door open. The spacious room was warm and well lit by a fire snapping in

a stone fireplace. A bare counter stretched across the far side of the room. The floor was

strewn with loose straw. Everything was scrupulously clean, as if the owner spent his

leisure time digging in obscure crannies for minuscule pieces of filth. Behind the counter

stood the butcher Sloan. A small man, he wore a cotton shirt and a long, bloodstained

smock. An impressive array of knives swung from his belt. He had a sallow, pockmarked

face, and his black eyes were suspicious. He polished the counter with a ragged cloth.

Sloan’s mouth twisted as Eragon entered. “Well, the mighty hunter joins the rest of us

mortals. How many did you bag this time?”

“None,” was Eragon’s curt reply. He had never liked Sloan. The butcher always treated

him with disdain, as if he were something unclean. A widower, Sloan seemed to care for

only one person—his daughter, Katrina, on whom he doted.

“I’m amazed,” said Sloan with affected astonishment. He turned his back on Eragon to

scrape something off the wall. “And that’s your reason for coming here?”

“Yes,” admitted Eragon uncomfortably.

“If that’s the case, let’s see your money.” Sloan tapped his fingers when Eragon shifted

his feet and remained silent. “Come on—either you have it or you don’t. Which is it?”

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

“What, no money?” the butcher cut him off sharply. “And you expect to buy meat! Are

the other merchants giving away their wares? Should I just hand you the goods without

charge? Besides,” he said abruptly, “it’s late. Come back tomorrow with money. I’m

closed for the day.”

Eragon glared at him. “I can’t wait until tomorrow, Sloan. It’ll be worth your while,

though; I found something to pay you with.” He pulled out the stone with a flourish and

set it gently on the scarred counter, where it gleamed with light from the dancing flames.

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

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

Sloan picked up the stone and gauged its weight speculatively. He ran his hands over its

smoothness and inspected the white veins. With a calculating look, he set it down. “It’s

pretty, but how much is it worth?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Eragon, “but no one would have gone to the trouble of shaping

it unless it had some value.”

“Obviously,” said Sloan with exaggerated patience. “But how much value? Since you

don’t know, I suggest that you find a trader who does, or take my offer of three crowns.”

“That’s a miser’s bargain! It must be worth at least ten times that,” protested Eragon.

Three crowns would not even buy enough meat to last a week.

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

tired of this conversation.”

The traders were a nomadic group of merchants and entertainers who visited Carvahall

every spring and winter. They bought whatever excess the villagers and local farmers had

managed to grow or make, and sold what they needed to live through another year: seeds,

animals, fabric, and supplies like salt and sugar.

But Eragon did not want to wait until they arrived; it could be a while, and his family

needed the meat now. “Fine, I accept,” he snapped.

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

“Two nights ago in the Spine—”

“Get out!” demanded Sloan, pushing the stone away. He stomped furiously to the end of

the counter and started scrubbing old bloodstains off a knife.

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

“I won’t deal with anything you bring back from those damned mountains! Take your

sorcerer’s stone elsewhere.” Sloan’s hand suddenly slipped and he cut a finger on the

knife, but he seemed not to notice. He continued to scrub, staining the blade with fresh

blood.

“You refuse to sell to me!”

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

“Go, before I make you!”

The door behind them slammed open. Eragon whirled around, ready for more trouble. In

stomped Horst, a hulking man. Sloan’s daughter, Katrina—a tall girl of sixteen—trailed

behind him with a determined expression. Eragon was surprised to see her; she usually

absented herself from any arguments involving her father. Sloan glanced at them warily,

then started to accuse Eragon. “He won’t—”

“Quiet,” announced Horst in a rumbling voice, cracking his knuckles at the same time.

He was Carvahall’s smith, as his thick neck and scarred leather apron attested. His

powerful arms were bare to the elbow; a great expanse of hairy muscular chest was

visible through the top of his shirt. A black beard, carelessly trimmed, roiled and knotted

like his jaw muscles. “Sloan, what have you done now?”

“Nothing.” He gave Eragon a murderous gaze, then spat, “This . . . boy came in here and started badgering me. I asked him to leave, but he won’t budge. I even threatened him

and he still ignored me!” Sloan seemed to shrink as he looked at Horst.

“Is this true?” demanded the smith.

“No!” replied Eragon. “I offered this stone as payment for some meat, and he accepted it.

When I told him that I’d found it in the Spine, he refused to even touch it. What

difference does it make where it came from?”

Horst looked at the stone curiously, then returned his attention to the butcher. “Why

won’t you trade with him, Sloan? I’ve no love for the Spine myself, but if it’s a question

of the stone’s worth, I’ll back it with my own money.”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Then Sloan licked his lips and said, “This is

my own store. I can do whatever I want.”

Katrina stepped out from behind Horst and tossed back her auburn hair like a spray of

molten copper. “Father, Eragon is willing to pay. Give him the meat, and then we can

have supper.”

Sloan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Go back to the house; this is none of your business.

. . . I said go !” Katrina’s face hardened, then she marched out of the room with a stiff back.

Eragon watched with disapproval but dared not interfere. Horst tugged at his beard before

saying reproachfully, “Fine, you can deal with me. What were you going to get, Eragon?”

His voice reverberated through the room.

“As much as I could.”

Horst pulled out a purse and counted out a pile of coins. “Give me your best roasts and

steaks. Make sure that it’s enough to fill Eragon’s pack.” The butcher hesitated, his gaze

darting between Horst and Eragon. “Not selling to me would be a very bad idea,” stated

Horst.

Glowering venomously, Sloan slipped into the back room. A frenzy of chopping,

wrapping, and low cursing reached them. After several uncomfortable minutes, he

returned with an armful of wrapped meat. His face was expressionless as he accepted

Horst’s money, then proceeded to clean his knife, pretending that they were not there.

Horst scooped up the meat and walked outside. Eragon hurried behind him, carrying his

pack and the stone. The crisp night air rolled over their faces, refreshing after the stuffy

shop.

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

Horst laughed quietly. “Don’t thank me. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Sloan’s a

vicious troublemaker; it does him good to be humbled. Katrina heard what was

happening and ran to fetch me. Good thing I came—the two of you were almost at blows.

Unfortunately, I doubt he’ll serve you or any of your family the next time you go in there,

even if you do have coins.”

“Why did he explode like that? We’ve never been friendly, but he’s always taken our

money. And I’ve never seen him treat Katrina that way,” said Eragon, opening the top of

the pack.

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

Eragon stuffed the meat into his pack. “Well, now I have one more reason to hurry home

. . . to solve this mystery. Here, this is rightfully yours.” He proffered the stone.

Horst chuckled. “No, you keep your strange rock. As for payment, Albriech plans to

leave for Feinster next spring. He wants to become a master smith, and I’m going to need

an assistant. You can come and work off the debt on your spare days.”

Eragon bowed slightly, delighted. Horst had two sons, Albriech and Baldor, both of

whom worked in his forge. Taking one’s place was a generous offer. “Again, thank you! I

look forward to working with you.” He was glad that there was a way for him to pay

Horst. His uncle would never accept charity. Then Eragon remembered what his cousin

had told him before he had left on the hunt. “Roran wanted me to give Katrina a message,

but since I can’t, can you get it to her?”

“Of course.”

“He wants her to know that he’ll come into town as soon as the merchants arrive and that

he will see her then.”

“That all?”

Eragon was slightly embarrassed. “No, he also wants her to know that she is the most

beautiful girl he has ever seen and that he thinks of nothing else.”

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

he?”

“Yes, sir,” Eragon answered with a quick smile. “Could you also give her my thanks? It

was nice of her to stand up to her father for me. I hope that she isn’t punished because of

it. Roran would be furious if I got her into trouble.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Sloan doesn’t know that she called me, so I doubt he’ll be too

hard on her. Before you go, will you sup with us?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Garrow is expecting me,” said Eragon, tying off the top of the

pack. He hoisted it onto his back and started down the road, raising his hand in farewell.

The meat slowed him down, but he was eager to be home, and renewed vigor filled his

steps. The village ended abruptly, and he left its warm lights behind. The pearlescent

moon peeked over the mountains, bathing the land in a ghostly reflection of daylight.

Everything looked bleached and flat.

Near the end of his journey, he turned off the road, which continued south. A simple path

led straight through waist-high grass and up a knoll, almost hidden by the shadows of

protective elm trees. He crested the hill and saw a gentle light shining from his home.

The house had a shingled roof and a brick chimney. Eaves hung over the whitewashed

walls, shadowing the ground below. One side of the enclosed porch was filled with split

wood, ready for the fire. A jumble of farm tools cluttered the other side.

The house had been abandoned for half a century when they moved in after Garrow’s

wife, Marian, died. It was ten miles from Carvahall, farther than anyone else’s. People

considered the distance dangerous because the family could not rely on help from the

village in times of trouble, but Eragon’s uncle would not listen.

A hundred feet from the house, in a dull-colored barn, lived two horses—Birka and

Brugh—with chickens and a cow. Sometimes there was also a pig, but they had been

unable to afford one this year. A wagon sat wedged between the stalls. On the edge of

their fields, a thick line of trees traced along the Anora River.

He saw a light move behind a window as he wearily reached the porch. “Uncle, it’s

Eragon. Let me in.” A small shutter slid back for a second, then the door swung inward.

Garrow stood with his hand on the door. His worn clothes hung on him like rags on a

stick frame. A lean, hungry face with intense eyes gazed out from under graying hair. He

looked like a man who had been partly mummified before it was discovered that he was

still alive. “Roran’s sleeping,” was his answer to Eragon’s inquiring glance.

A lantern flickered on a wood table so old that the grain stood up in tiny ridges like a

giant fingerprint. Near a woodstove were rows of cooking utensils tacked onto the wall

with homemade nails. A second door opened to the rest of the house. The floor was made

of boards polished smooth by years of tramping feet.

Eragon pulled off his pack and took out the meat. “What’s this? Did you buy meat?

Where did you get the money?” asked his uncle harshly as he saw the wrapped packages.

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

“You let him pay for it? I told you before, I won’t beg for our food. If we can’t feed

ourselves, we might as well move into town. Before you can turn around twice, they’ll be

sending us used clothes and asking if we’ll be able to get through the winter.” Garrow’s

face paled with anger.

“I didn’t accept charity,” snapped Eragon. “Horst agreed to let me work off the debt this

spring. He needs someone to help him because Albriech is going away.”

“And where will you get the time to work for him? Are you going to ignore all the things

that need to be done here?” asked Garrow, forcing his voice down.

Eragon hung his bow and quiver on hooks beside the front door. “I don’t know how I’ll

do it,” he said irritably. “Besides, I found something that could be worth some money.”

He set the stone on the table.

Garrow bowed over it: the hungry look on his face became ravenous, and his fingers

moved with a strange twitch. “You found this in the Spine?”

“Yes,” said Eragon. He explained what had happened. “And to make matters worse, I lost

my best arrow. I’ll have to make more before long.” They stared at the stone in the near

darkness.

“How was the weather?” asked his uncle, lifting the stone. His hands tightened around it

like he was afraid it would suddenly disappear.

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

Garrow looked worried by the news. “Tomorrow you’ll have to help Roran finish

harvesting the barley. If we can get the squash picked, too, the frost won’t bother us.” He

passed the stone to Eragon. “Here, keep it. When the traders come, we’ll find out what

it’s worth. Selling it is probably the best thing to do. The less we’re involved with magic,

the better. . . . Why did Horst pay for the meat?”

It took only a moment for Eragon to explain his argument with Sloan. “I just don’t

understand what angered him so.”

Garrow shrugged. “Sloan’s wife, Ismira, went over the Igualda Falls a year before you

were brought here. He hasn’t been near the Spine since, nor had anything to do with it.

But that’s no reason to refuse payment. I think he wanted to give you trouble.”

Eragon swayed blearily and said, “It’s good to be back.” Garrow’s eyes softened, and he

nodded. Eragon stumbled to his room, pushed the stone under his bed, then fell onto the

mattress. Home . For the first time since before the hunt, he relaxed completely as sleep overtook him.

DRAGONTALES

At dawn the sun’s rays streamed through the window, warming Eragon’s face. Rubbing

his eyes, he sat up on the edge of the bed. The pine floor was cold under his feet. He

stretched his sore legs and rubbed his back, yawning.

Beside the bed was a row of shelves covered with objects he had collected. There were

twisted pieces of wood, odd bits of shells, rocks that had broken to reveal shiny interiors,

and strips of dry grass tied into knots. His favorite item was a root so convoluted he never

tired of looking at it. The rest of the room was bare, except for a small dresser and

nightstand.

He pulled on his boots and stared at the floor, thinking. This was a special day. It was

near this very hour, sixteen years ago, that his mother, Selena, had come home to

Carvahall alone and pregnant. She had been gone for six years, living in the cities. When

she returned, she wore expensive clothes, and her hair was bound by a net of pearls. She

had sought out her brother, Garrow, and asked to stay with him until the baby arrived.

Within five months her son was born. Everyone was shocked when Selena tearfully

begged Garrow and Marian to raise him. When they asked why, she only wept and said,

“I must.” Her pleas had grown increasingly desperate until they finally agreed. She

named him Eragon, then departed early the next morning and never returned.

Eragon still remembered how he had felt when Marian told him the story before she died.

The realization that Garrow and Marian were not his real parents had disturbed him

greatly. Things that had been permanent and unquestionable were suddenly thrown into

doubt. Eventually he had learned to live with it, but he always had a nagging suspicion

that he had not been good enough for his mother. I’m sure there was a good reason for

what she did; I only wish I knew what it was.

One other thing bothered him: Who was his father? Selena had told no one, and whoever

it might be had never come looking for Eragon. He wished that he knew who it was, if

only to have a name. It would be nice to know his heritage.

He sighed and went to the nightstand, where he splashed his face, shivering as the water

ran down his neck. Refreshed, he retrieved the stone from under the bed and set it on a

shelf. The morning light caressed it, throwing a warm shadow on the wall. He touched it

one more time, then hurried to the kitchen, eager to see his family. Garrow and Roran

were already there, eating chicken. As Eragon greeted them, Roran stood with a grin.

Roran was two years older than Eragon, muscular, sturdy, and careful with his

movements. They could not have been closer even if they had been real brothers.

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

“Hard,” replied Eragon. “Did Uncle tell you what happened?” He helped himself to a

piece of chicken, which he devoured hungrily.

“No,” said Roran, and the story was quickly told. At Roran’s insistence, Eragon left his

food to show him the stone. This elicited a satisfactory amount of awe, but Roran soon

asked nervously, “Were you able to talk with Katrina?”

“No, there wasn’t an opportunity after the argument with Sloan. But she’ll expect you

when the traders come. I gave the message to Horst; he will get it to her.”

“You told Horst?” said Roran incredulously. “That was private. If I wanted everyone to

know about it, I could have built a bonfire and used smoke signals to communicate. If

Sloan finds out, he won’t let me see her again.”

“Horst will be discreet,” assured Eragon. “He won’t let anyone fall prey to Sloan, least of

all you.” Roran seemed unconvinced, but argued no more. They returned to their meals in

the taciturn presence of Garrow. When the last bites were finished, all three went to work

in the fields.

The sun was cold and pale, providing little comfort. Under its watchful eye, the last of the

barley was stored in the barn. Next, they gathered prickly vined squash, then the

rutabagas, beets, peas, turnips, and beans, which they packed into the root cellar. After

hours of labor, they stretched their cramped muscles, pleased that the harvest was

finished.

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

winter.

Nine days after Eragon’s return, a vicious blizzard blew out of the mountains and settled

over the valley. The snow came down in great sheets, blanketing the countryside in

white. They only dared leave the house for firewood and to feed the animals, for they

feared getting lost in the howling wind and featureless landscape. They spent their time

huddled over the stove as gusts rattled the heavy window shutters. Days later the storm

finally passed, revealing an alien world of soft white drifts.

“I’m afraid the traders may not come this year, with conditions this bad,” said Garrow.

“They’re late as it is. We’ll give them a chance and wait before going to Carvahall. But if

they don’t show soon, we’ll have to buy any spare supplies from the townspeople.” His

countenance was resigned.

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

depression hung over the house.

On the eighth morning, Roran walked to the road and confirmed that the traders had not

yet passed. The day was spent readying for the trip into Carvahall, scrounging with grim

expressions for saleable items. That evening, out of desperation, Eragon checked the road

again. He found deep ruts cut into the snow, with numerous hoofprints between them.

Elated, he ran back to the house whooping, bringing new life to their preparations.

They packed their surplus produce into the wagon before sunrise. Garrow put the year’s

money in a leather pouch that he carefully fastened to his belt. Eragon set the wrapped

stone between bags of grain so it would not roll when the wagon hit bumps.

After a hasty breakfast, they harnessed the horses and cleared a path to the road. The

traders’ wagons had already broken the drifts, which sped their progress. By noon they

could see Carvahall.

In daylight, it was a small earthy village filled with shouts and laughter. The traders had

made camp in an empty field on the outskirts of town. Groups of wagons, tents, and fires

were randomly spread across it, spots of color against the snow. The troubadours’ four

tents were garishly decorated. A steady stream of people linked the camp to the village.

Crowds churned around a line of bright tents and booths clogging the main street. Horses

whinnied at the noise. The snow had been pounded flat, giving it a glassy surface;

elsewhere, bonfires had melted it. Roasted hazelnuts added a rich aroma to the smells

wafting around them.

Garrow parked the wagon and picketed the horses, then drew coins from his pouch. “Get

yourselves some treats. Roran, do what you want, only be at Horst’s in time for supper.

Eragon, bring that stone and come with me.” Eragon grinned at Roran and pocketed the

money, already planning how to spend it.

Roran departed immediately with a determined expression on his face. Garrow led

Eragon into the throng, shouldering his way through the bustle. Women were buying

cloth, while nearby their husbands examined a new latch, hook, or tool. Children ran up

and down the road, shrieking with excitement. Knives were displayed here, spices there,

and pots were laid out in shiny rows next to leather harnesses.

Eragon stared at the traders curiously. They seemed less prosperous than last year. Their

children had a frightened, wary look, and their clothes were patched. The gaunt men

carried swords and daggers with a new familiarity, and even the women had poniards

belted at their waists.

What could have happened to make them like this? And why are they so late? wondered

Eragon. He remembered the traders as being full of good cheer, but there was none of

that now. Garrow pushed down the street, searching for Merlock, a trader who

specialized in odd trinkets and pieces of jewelry.

They found him behind a booth, displaying brooches to a group of women. As each new

piece was revealed, exclamations of admiration followed. Eragon guessed that more than

a few purses would soon be depleted. Merlock seemed to flourish and grow every time

his wares were complimented. He wore a goatee, held himself with ease, and seemed to

regard the rest of the world with slight contempt.

The excited group prevented Garrow and Eragon from getting near the trader, so they

settled on a step and waited. As soon as Merlock was unoccupied, they hurried over.

“And what might you sirs want to look at?” asked Merlock. “An amulet or trinket for a

lady?” With a twirl he pulled out a delicately carved silver rose of excellent

workmanship. The polished metal caught Eragon’s attention, and he eyed it

appreciatively. The trader continued, “Not even three crowns, though it has come all the

way from the famed craftsmen of Belatona.”

Garrow spoke in a quiet voice. “We aren’t looking to buy, but to sell.” Merlock

immediately covered the rose and looked at them with new interest.

“I see. Maybe, if this item is of any value, you would like to trade it for one or two of

these exquisite pieces.” He paused for a moment while Eragon and his uncle stood

uncomfortably, then continued, “You did bring the object of consideration?”

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

Merlock raised an eyebrow, but spoke smoothly. “In that case, let me invite you to my

tent.” He gathered up his wares and gently laid them in an iron-bound chest, which he

locked. Then he ushered them up the street and into the temporary camp. They wound

between the wagons to a tent removed from the rest of the traders’. It was crimson at the

top and sable at the bottom, with thin triangles of colors stabbing into each other.

Merlock untied the opening and swung the flap to one side.

Small trinkets and strange pieces of furniture, such as a round bed and three seats carved

from tree stumps, filled the tent. A gnarled dagger with a ruby in the pommel rested on a

white cushion.

Merlock closed the flap and turned to them. “Please, seat yourselves.” When they had, he

said, “Now show me why we are meeting in private.” Eragon unwrapped the stone and

set it between the two men. Merlock reached for it with a gleam in his eye, then stopped

and asked, “May I?” When Garrow indicated his approval, Merlock picked it up.

He put the stone in his lap and reached to one side for a thin box. Opened, it revealed a

large set of copper scales, which he set on the ground. After weighing the stone, he

scrutinized its surface under a jeweler’s glass, tapped it gently with a wooden mallet, and

drew the point of a tiny clear stone over it. He measured its length and diameter, then

recorded the figures on a slate. He considered the results for a while. “Do you know what

this is worth?”

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

Merlock grimaced. “Unfortunately, neither do I. But I can tell you this much: the white

veins are the same material as the blue that surrounds them, only a different color. What

that material might be, though, I haven’t a clue. It’s harder than any rock I have seen,

harder even than diamond. Whoever shaped it used tools I have never seen—or magic.

Also, it’s hollow.”

“What?” exclaimed Garrow.

An irritated edge crept into Merlock’s voice. “Did you ever hear a rock sound like this?”

He grabbed the dagger from the cushion and slapped the stone with the flat of the blade.

A pure note filled the air, then faded away smoothly. Eragon was alarmed, afraid that the

stone had been damaged. Merlock tilted the stone toward them. “You will find no

scratches or blemishes where the dagger struck. I doubt I could do anything to harm this

stone, even if I took a hammer to it.”

Garrow crossed his arms with a reserved expression. A wall of silence surrounded him.

Eragon was puzzled. I knew that the stone appeared in the Spine through magic, but made

by magic? What for and why? He blurted, “But what is it worth?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Merlock in a pained voice. “I am sure there are people who

would pay dearly to have it, but none of them are in Carvahall. You would have to go to

the southern cities to find a buyer. This is a curiosity for most people—not an item to

spend money on when practical things are needed.”

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

The trader answered instantly, “It’s not worth the risk. I might be able to find a wealthy

buyer during my spring travels, but I can’t be certain. Even if I did, you wouldn’t be paid

until I returned next year. No, you will have to find someone else to trade with. I am

curious, however . . . Why did you insist on talking to me in private?”

Eragon put the stone away before answering. “Because,” he glanced at the man,

wondering if he would explode like Sloan, “I found this in the Spine, and folks around

here don’t like that.”

Merlock gave him a startled look. “Do you know why my fellow merchants and I were

late this year?”

Eragon shook his head.

“Our wanderings have been dogged with misfortune. Chaos seems to rule Alagaësia. We

could not avoid illness, attacks, and the most cursed black luck. Because the Varden’s

attacks have increased, Galbatorix has forced cities to send more soldiers to the borders,

men who are needed to combat the Urgals. The brutes have been migrating southeast,

toward the Hadarac Desert. No one knows why and it wouldn’t concern us, except that

they’re passing through populated areas. They’ve been spotted on roads and near cities.

Worst of all are reports of a Shade, though the stories are unconfirmed. Not many people

survive such an encounter.”

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

“Because,” said Merlock grimly, “it only began a few months ago. Whole villages have

been forced to move because Urgals destroyed their fields and starvation threatens.”

“Nonsense,” growled Garrow. “We haven’t seen any Urgals; the only one around here

has his horns mounted in Morn’s tavern.”

Merlock arched an eyebrow. “Maybe so, but this is a small village hidden by mountains.

It’s not surprising that you’ve escaped notice. However, I wouldn’t expect that to last. I

only mentioned this because strange things are happening here as well if you found such

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

slight smile.

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

asked Eragon.

“I’m going to get more information before I make up my mind. Take the stone back to

the wagon, then do what you want. I’ll meet you for dinner at Horst’s.”

Eragon dodged through the crowd and happily dashed back to the wagon. Trading would

take his uncle hours, time that he planned to enjoy fully. He hid the stone under the bags,

then set out into town with a cocky stride.

He walked from one booth to another, evaluating the goods with a buyer’s eye, despite

his meager supply of coins. When he talked with the merchants, they confirmed what

Merlock had said about the instability in Alagaësia. Over and over the message was

repeated: last year’s security has deserted us; new dangers have appeared, and nothing is

safe.

Later in the day he bought three sticks of malt candy and a small piping-hot cherry pie.

The hot food felt good after hours of standing in the snow. He licked the sticky syrup

from his fingers regretfully, wishing for more, then sat on the edge of a porch and nibbled

a piece of candy. Two boys from Carvahall wrestled nearby, but he felt no inclination to

join them.

As the day descended into late afternoon, the traders took their business into people’s

homes. Eragon was impatient for evening, when the troubadours would come out to tell

stories and perform tricks. He loved hearing about magic, gods, and, if they were

especially lucky, the Dragon Riders. Carvahall had its own storyteller, Brom—a friend of

Eragon’s—but his tales grew old over the years, whereas the troubadours always had new

ones that he listened to eagerly.

Eragon had just broken off an icicle from the underside of the porch when he spotted

Sloan nearby. The butcher had not seen him, so Eragon ducked his head and bolted

around a corner toward Morn’s tavern.

The inside was hot and filled with greasy smoke from sputtering tallow candles. The

shiny-black Urgal horns, their twisted span as great as his outstretched arms, were

mounted over the door. The bar was long and low, with a stack of staves on one end for

customers to carve. Morn tended the bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The bottom

half of his face was short and mashed, as if he had rested his chin on a grinding wheel.

People crowded solid oak tables and listened to two traders who had finished their

business early and had come in for beer.

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

uncle?”

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

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

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

“Good, good.”

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

“Grain buyers. They bought everyone’s seed at ridiculously low prices, and now they’re

telling wild stories, expecting us to believe them.”

Eragon understood why Morn was so upset. People need that money. We can’t get by

without it. “What kind of stories?”

Morn snorted. “They say the Varden have formed a pact with the Urgals and are massing

an army to attack us. Supposedly , it’s only through the grace of our king that we’ve been protected for so long—as if Galbatorix would care if we burned to the ground. . . . Go

listen to them. I have enough on my hands without explaining their lies.”

The first trader filled a chair with his enormous girth; his every movement caused it to

protest loudly. There was no hint of hair on his face, his pudgy hands were baby smooth,

and he had pouting lips that curled petulantly as he sipped from a flagon. The second man

had a florid face. The skin around his jaw was dry and corpulent, filled with lumps of

hard fat, like cold butter gone rancid. Contrasted with his neck and jowls, the rest of his

body was unnaturally thin.

The first trader vainly tried to pull back his expanding borders to fit within the chair. He

said, “No, no, you don’t understand. It is only through the king’s unceasing efforts on

your behalf that you are able to argue with us in safety. If he, in all his wisdom, were to

withdraw that support, woe unto you!”

Someone hollered, “Right, why don’t you also tell us the Riders have returned and

you’ve each killed a hundred elves. Do you think we’re children to believe in your tales?

We can take care of ourselves.” The group chuckled.

The trader started to reply when his thin companion intervened with a wave of his hand.

Gaudy jewels flashed on his fingers. “You misunderstand. We know the Empire cannot

care for each of us personally, as you may want, but it can keep Urgals and other

abominations from overrunning this,” he searched vaguely for the right term, “place.”

The trader continued, “You’re angry with the Empire for treating people unfairly, a

legitimate concern, but a government cannot please everyone. There will inevitably be

arguments and conflicts. However, the majority of us have nothing to complain about.

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

of power.”

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

The fat man sighed. “We already explained that the Varden have no interest in helping

you. That’s only a falsehood perpetuated by the traitors in an attempt to disrupt the

Empire and convince us that the real threat is inside—not outside—our borders. All they

want to do is overthrow the king and take possession of our land. They have spies

everywhere as they prepare to invade. You never know who might be working for them.”

Eragon did not agree, but the traders’ words were smooth, and people were nodding. He

stepped forward and said, “How do you know this? I can say that clouds are green, but

that doesn’t mean it’s true. Prove you aren’t lying.” The two men glared at him while the

villagers waited silently for the answer.

The thin trader spoke first. He avoided Eragon’s eyes. “Aren’t your children taught

respect? Or do you let boys challenge men whenever they want to?”

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

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

the villagers, and the dispute resumed.

Eragon returned to the bar with a sour taste in his mouth. He had never before met

anyone who favored the Empire and tore down its enemies. There was a deep-seated

hatred of the Empire in Carvahall, almost hereditary in nature. The Empire never helped

them during harsh years when they nearly starved, and its tax collectors were heartless.

He felt justified in disagreeing with the traders regarding the king’s mercy, but he did

speculate about the Varden.

The Varden were a rebel group that constantly raided and attacked the Empire. It was a

mystery who their leader was or who had formed them in the years following

Galbatorix’s rise to power over a century ago. The group had garnered much sympathy as

they eluded Galbatorix’s efforts to destroy them. Little was known about the Varden

except that if you were a fugitive and had to hide, or if you hated the Empire, they would

accept you. The only problem was finding them.

Morn leaned over the bar and said, “Incredible, isn’t it? They’re worse than vultures

circling a dying animal. There’s going to be trouble if they stay much longer.”

“For us or for them?”

“Them,” said Morn as angry voices filled the tavern. Eragon left when the argument

threatened to become violent. The door thudded shut behind him, cutting off the voices. It

was early evening, and the sun was sinking rapidly; the houses cast long shadows on the

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

alley.

Roran said something Eragon could not hear. Katrina looked down at her hands and

answered in an undertone, then leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him before darting

away. Eragon trotted to Roran and teased, “Having a good time?” Roran grunted

noncommittally as he paced away.

“Have you heard the traders’ news?” asked Eragon, following. Most of the villagers were

indoors, talking to traders or waiting until it was dark enough for the troubadours to

perform.

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

“I thought it was obvious.”

“There’ll be blood between us when he finds out about Katrina and me,” stated Roran. A

snowflake landed on Eragon’s nose, and he looked up. The sky had turned gray. He could

think of nothing appropriate to say; Roran was right. He clasped his cousin on the

shoulder as they continued down the byway.

Dinner at Horst’s was hearty. The room was full of conversation and laughter. Sweet

cordials and heavy ales were consumed in copious amounts, adding to the boisterous

atmosphere. When the plates were empty, Horst’s guests left the house and strolled to the

field where the traders were camped. A ring of poles topped with candles had been stuck

into the ground around a large clearing. Bonfires blazed in the background, painting the

ground with dancing shadows. The villagers slowly gathered around the circle and waited

expectantly in the cold.

The troubadours came tumbling out of their tents, dressed in tasseled clothing, followed

by older and more stately minstrels. The minstrels provided music and narration as their

younger counterparts acted out the stories. The first plays were pure entertainment:

bawdy and full of jokes, pratfalls, and ridiculous characters. Later, however, when the

candles sputtered in their sockets and everyone was drawn together into a tight circle, the

old storyteller Brom stepped forward. A knotted white beard rippled over his chest, and a

long black cape was wrapped around his bent shoulders, obscuring his body. He spread

his arms with hands that reached out like talons and recited thus:

“The sands of time cannot be stopped. Years pass whether we will them or not . . . but we

can remember. What has been lost may yet live on in memories. That which you will hear

is imperfect and fragmented, yet treasure it, for without you it does not exist. I give you

now a memory that has been forgotten, hidden in the dreamy haze that lies behind us.”

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

“Before your grandfathers’ fathers were born, and yea, even before their fathers, the

Dragon Riders were formed. To protect and guard was their mission, and for thousands of

years they succeeded. Their prowess in battle was unmatched, for each had the strength

of ten men. They were immortal unless blade or poison took them. For good only were

their powers used, and under their tutelage tall cities and towers were built out of the

living stone. While they kept peace, the land flourished. It was a golden time. The elves

were our allies, the dwarves our friends. Wealth flowed into our cities, and men

prospered. But weep . . . for it could not last.”

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

“Though no enemy could destroy them, they could not guard against themselves. And it

came to pass at the height of their power that a boy, Galbatorix by name, was born in the

province of Inzilbêth, which is no more. At ten he was tested, as was the custom, and it

was found that great power resided in him. The Riders accepted him as their own.

“Through their training he passed, exceeding all others in skill. Gifted with a sharp mind

and strong body, he quickly took his place among the Riders’ ranks. Some saw his abrupt

rise as dangerous and warned the others, but the Riders had grown arrogant in their power

and ignored caution. Alas, sorrow was conceived that day.

“So it was that soon after his training was finished, Galbatorix took a reckless trip with

two friends. Far north they flew, night and day, and passed into the Urgals’ remaining

territory, foolishly thinking their new powers would protect them. There on a thick sheet

of ice, unmelted even in summer, they were ambushed in their sleep. Though his friends

and their dragons were butchered and he suffered great wounds, Galbatorix slew his

attackers. Tragically, during the fight a stray arrow pierced his dragon’s heart. Without

the arts to save her, she died in his arms. Then were the seeds of madness planted.”

The storyteller clasped his hands and looked around slowly, shadows flickering across his

worn face. The next words came like the mournful toll of a requiem.

“Alone, bereft of much of his strength and half mad with loss, Galbatorix wandered

without hope in that desolate land, seeking death. It did not come to him, though he threw

himself without fear against any living thing. Urgals and other monsters soon fled from

his haunted form. During this time he came to realize that the Riders might grant him

another dragon. Driven by this thought, he began the arduous journey, on foot, back

through the Spine. Territory he had soared over effortlessly on a dragon’s back now took

him months to traverse. He could hunt with magic, but oftentimes he walked in places

where animals did not travel. Thus when his feet finally left the mountains, he was close

to death. A farmer found him collapsed in the mud and summoned the Riders.

“Unconscious, he was taken to their holdings, and his body healed. He slept for four

days. Upon awakening he gave no sign of his fevered mind. When he was brought before

a council convened to judge him, Galbatorix demanded another dragon. The desperation

of the request revealed his dementia, and the council saw him for what he truly was.

Denied his hope, Galbatorix, through the twisted mirror of his madness, came to believe

it was the Riders’ fault his dragon had died. Night after night he brooded on that and

formulated a plan to exact revenge.”

Brom’s words dropped to a mesmerizing whisper.

“He found a sympathetic Rider, and there his insidious words took root. By persistent

reasoning and the use of dark secrets learned from a Shade, he inflamed the Rider against

their elders. Together they treacherously lured and killed an elder. When the foul deed

was done, Galbatorix turned on his ally and slaughtered him without warning. The Riders

found him, then, with blood dripping from his hands. A scream tore from his lips, and he

fled into the night. As he was cunning in his madness, they could not find him.

“For years he hid in wastelands like a hunted animal, always watching for pursuers. His

atrocity was not forgotten, but over time searches ceased. Then through some ill fortune

he met a young Rider, Morzan—strong of body, but weak of mind. Galbatorix convinced

Morzan to leave a gate unbolted in the citadel Ilirea, which is now called Urû’baen.

Through this gate Galbatorix entered and stole a dragon hatchling.

“He and his new disciple hid themselves in an evil place where the Riders dared not

venture. There Morzan entered into a dark apprenticeship, learning secrets and forbidden

magic that should never have been revealed. When his instruction was finished and

Galbatorix’s black dragon, Shruikan, was fully grown, Galbatorix revealed himself to the

world, with Morzan at his side. Together they fought any Rider they met. With each kill

their strength grew. Twelve of the Riders joined Galbatorix out of desire for power and

revenge against perceived wrongs. Those twelve, with Morzan, became the Thirteen

Forsworn. The Riders were unprepared and fell beneath the onslaught. The elves, too,

fought bitterly against Galbatorix, but they were overthrown and forced to flee to their

secret places, from whence they come no more.

“Only Vrael, leader of the Riders, could resist Galbatorix and the Forsworn. Ancient and

wise, he struggled to save what he could and keep the remaining dragons from falling to

his enemies. In the last battle, before the gates of Dorú Areaba, Vrael defeated

Galbatorix, but hesitated with the final blow. Galbatorix seized the moment and smote

him in the side. Grievously wounded, Vrael fled to Utgard Mountain, where he hoped to

gather strength. But it was not to be, for Galbatorix found him. As they fought,

Galbatorix kicked Vrael in the fork of his legs. With that underhanded blow, he gained

dominance over Vrael and removed his head with a blazing sword.

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

Alagaësia.

“And from that day, he has ruled us.”

With the completion of the story, Brom shuffled away with the troubadours. Eragon

thought he saw a tear shining on his cheek. People murmured quietly to each other as

they departed. Garrow said to Eragon and Roran, “Consider yourselves fortunate. I have

heard this tale only twice in my life. If the Empire knew that Brom had recited it, he

would not live to see a new month.”

FATE’SGIFT

The evening after their return from Carvahall, Eragon decided to test the stone as

Merlock had. Alone in his room, he set it on his bed and laid three tools next to it. He

started with a wooden mallet and lightly tapped the stone. It produced a subtle ringing.

Satisfied, he picked up the next tool, a heavy leather hammer. A mournful peal

reverberated when it struck. Lastly, he pounded a small chisel against it. The metal did

not chip or scratch the stone, but it produced the clearest sound yet. As the final note died

away, he thought he heard a faint squeak.

Merlock said the stone was hollow; there could be something of value inside. I don’t

know how to open it, though. There must have been a good reason for someone to shape

it, but whoever sent the stone into the Spine hasn’t taken the trouble to retrieve it or

doesn’t know where it is. But I don’t believe that a magician with enough power to

transport the stone wouldn’t be able to find it again. So was I meant to have it? He could not answer the question. Resigned to an unsolvable mystery, he picked up the tools and

returned the stone to its shelf.

That night he was abruptly roused from sleep. He listened carefully. All was quiet.

Uneasy, he slid his hand under the mattress and grasped his knife. He waited a few

minutes, then slowly sank back to sleep.

A squeak pierced the silence, tearing him back to wakefulness. He rolled out of bed and

yanked the knife from its sheath. Fumbling with a tinderbox, he lit a candle. The door to

his room was closed. Though the squeak was too loud for a mouse or rat, he still checked

under the bed. Nothing. He sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed the sleep from his

eyes. Another squeak filled the air, and he started violently.

Where was the noise was coming from? Nothing could be in the floor or walls; they were

solid wood. The same went for his bed, and he would have noticed if anything had

crawled into his straw mattress during the night. His eyes settled on the stone. He took it

off the shelf and absently cradled it as he studied the room. A squeak rang in his ears and

reverberated through his fingers; it came from the stone.

The stone had given him nothing but frustration and anger, and now it would not even let

him sleep! It ignored his furious glare and sat solidly, occasionally peeping. Then it gave

one very loud squeak and fell silent. Eragon warily put it away and got back under the

sheets. Whatever secret the stone held, it would have to wait until morning.

The moon was shining through his window when he woke again. The stone was rocking

rapidly on the shelf, knocking against the wall. It was bathed in cool moonlight that

bleached its surface. Eragon jumped out of bed, knife in hand. The motion stopped, but

he remained tense. Then the stone started squeaking and rocking faster than ever.

With an oath, he began dressing. He did not care how valuable the stone might be; he was

going to take it far away and bury it. The rocking stopped; the stone became quiet. It

quivered, then rolled forward and dropped onto the floor with a loud thump. He inched

toward the door in alarm as the stone wobbled toward him.

Suddenly a crack appeared on the stone. Then another and another. Transfixed, Eragon

leaned forward, still holding the knife. At the top of the stone, where all the cracks met, a

small piece wobbled, as if it were balanced on something, then rose and toppled to the

floor. After another series of squeaks, a small dark head poked out of the hole, followed

by a weirdly angled body. Eragon gripped the knife tighter and held very still. Soon the

creature was all the way out of the stone. It stayed in place for a moment, then skittered

into the moonlight.

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

it, was a dragon.

AWAKENING

The dragon was no longer than his forearm, yet it was dignified and noble. Its scales

were deep sapphire blue, the same color as the stone. But not a stone, he realized, an egg.

The dragon fanned its wings; they were what had made it appear so contorted. The wings

were several times longer than its body and ribbed with thin fingers of bone that extended

from the wing’s front edge, forming a line of widely spaced talons. The dragon’s head

was roughly triangular. Two diminutive white fangs curved down out of its upper jaw.

They looked very sharp. Its claws were also white, like polished ivory, and slightly

serrated on the inside curve. A line of small spikes ran down the creature’s spine from the

base of its head to the tip of its tail. A hollow where its neck and shoulders joined created

a larger-than-normal gap between the spikes.

Eragon shifted slightly, and the dragon’s head snapped around. Hard, ice-blue eyes fixed

on him. He kept very still. It might be a formidable enemy if it decided to attack.

The dragon lost interest in Eragon and awkwardly explored the room, squealing as it

bumped into a wall or furniture. With a flutter of wings, it leapt onto the bed and crawled

to his pillow, squeaking. Its mouth was open pitifully, like a young bird’s, displaying

rows of pointed teeth. Eragon sat cautiously on the end of the bed. The dragon smelled

his hand, nibbled his sleeve. He pulled his arm back.

A smile tugged at Eragon’s lips as he looked at the small creature. Tentatively, he

reached out with his right hand and touched its flank. A blast of icy energy surged into

his hand and raced up his arm, burning in his veins like liquid fire. He fell back with a

wild cry. An iron clang filled his ears, and he heard a soundless scream of rage. Every

part of his body seared with pain. He struggled to move, but was unable to. After what

seemed like hours, warmth seeped back into his limbs, leaving them tingling. Shivering

uncontrollably, he pushed himself upright. His hand was numb, his fingers paralyzed.

Alarmed, he watched as the middle of his palm shimmered and formed a diffused white

oval. The skin itched and burned like a spider bite. His heart pounded frantically.

Eragon blinked, trying to understand what had occurred. Something brushed against his

consciousness, like a finger trailing over his skin. He felt it again, but this time it

solidified into a tendril of thought through which he could feel a growing curiosity. It was

as if an invisible wall surrounding his thoughts had fallen away, and he was now free to

reach out with his mind. He was afraid that without anything to hold him back, he would

float out of his body and be unable to return, becoming a spirit of the ether. Scared, he

pulled away from the contact. The new sense vanished as if he had closed his eyes. He

glared suspiciously at the motionless dragon.

A scaly leg scraped against his side, and he jerked back. But the energy did not shock

him again. Puzzled, he rubbed the dragon’s head with his right hand. A light tingling ran

up his arm. The dragon nuzzled him, arching its back like a cat. He slid a finger over its

thin wing membranes. They felt like old parchment, velvety and warm, but still slightly

damp. Hundreds of slender veins pulsed through them.

Again the tendril touched his mind, but this time, instead of curiosity, he sensed an

overpowering, ravenous hunger. He got up with a sigh. This was a dangerous animal, of

that he was sure. Yet it seemed so helpless crawling on his bed, he could only wonder if

there was any harm in keeping it. The dragon wailed in a reedy tone as it looked for food.

Eragon quickly scratched its head to keep it quiet. I’ll think about this later, he decided, and left the room, carefully closing the door.

Returning with two strips of dried meat, he found the dragon sitting on the windowsill,

watching the moon. He cut the meat into small squares and offered one to the dragon. It

smelled the square cautiously, then jabbed its head forward like a snake and snatched the

meat from his fingers, swallowing it whole with a peculiar jerk. The dragon prodded

Eragon’s hand for more food.

He fed it, careful to keep his fingers out of the way. By the time there was only one

square left, the dragon’s belly was bulging. He proffered the last piece; the dragon

considered it for a moment, then lazily snapped it up. Done eating, it crawled onto his

arm and curled against his chest. Then it snorted, a puff of dark smoke rising from its

nostrils. Eragon looked at it with wonder.

Just when he thought the dragon was asleep, a low humming came from its vibrating

throat. Gently, he carried it to the bed and set it by his pillow. The dragon, eyes closed,

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

the near darkness.

He faced a painful dilemma: By raising a dragon, he could become a Rider. Myths and

stories about Riders were treasured, and being one would automatically place him among

those legends. However, if the Empire discovered the dragon, he and his family would be

put to death unless he joined the king. No one could—or would—help them. The simplest

solution was just to kill the dragon, but the idea was repugnant, and he rejected it.

Dragons were too revered for him to even consider that. Besides, what could betray us? he thought. We live in a remote area and have done nothing to draw attention.

The problem was convincing Garrow and Roran to let him keep the dragon. Neither of

them would care to have a dragon around. I could raise it in secret. In a month or two it

will be too large for Garrow to get rid of, but will he accept it? Even if he does, can I get enough food for the dragon while it’s hiding? It’s no larger than a small cat, but it ate an entire handful of meat! I suppose it’ll be able to hunt for itself eventually, but how long until then? Will it be able to survive the cold outside? All the same, he wanted the

dragon. The more he thought about it, the surer he was. However things might work out

with Garrow, Eragon would do everything he could to protect it. Determined, he fell

asleep with the dragon cradled against him.

When dawn came, the dragon was sitting atop his bedpost, like an ancient sentinel

welcoming the new day. Eragon marveled at its color. He had never seen such a clear,

hard blue. Its scales were like hundreds of small gemstones. He noticed that the white

oval on his palm, where he had touched the dragon, had a silvery sheen. He hoped he

could hide it by keeping his hands dirty.

The dragon launched off the post and glided to the floor. Eragon gingerly picked it up

and left the quiet house, pausing to grab meat, several leather strips, and as many rags as

he could carry. The crisp morning was beautiful; a fresh layer of snow covered the farm.

He smiled as the small creature looked around with interest from the safety of his arms.

Hurrying across the fields, he walked silently into the dark forest, searching for a safe

place for the dragon to stay. Eventually he found a rowan tree standing alone on a barren

knoll, its branches snow-tipped gray fingers that reached toward the sky. He set the

dragon down by the base of the trunk and shook the leather onto the ground.

With a few deft movements, he made a noose and slipped it over the dragon’s head as it

explored the snowy clumps surrounding the tree. The leather was worn, but it would

hold. He watched the dragon crawl around, then untied the noose from its neck and

fashioned a makeshift harness for its legs so the dragon would not strangle itself. Next he

gathered an armful of sticks and built a crude hut high in the branches, layering the inside

with rags and stashing the meat. Snow fell on his face as the tree swayed. He hung more

rags over the front of the shelter to keep heat inside. Pleased, he surveyed his work.

“Time to show you your new home,” he said, and lifted the dragon up into the branches.

It wriggled, trying to get free, then clambered into the hut, where it ate a piece of meat,

curled up, and blinked coyly at him. “You’ll be fine as long as you stay in here,” he

instructed. The dragon blinked again.

Sure that it had not understood him, Eragon groped with his mind until he felt the

dragon’s consciousness. Again he had the terrible feeling of openness —of a space so

large it pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. Summoning his strength, he focused

on the dragon and tried to impress on it one idea: Stay here. The dragon stopped moving and cocked its head at him. He pushed harder: Stay here. A dim acknowledgment came

tentatively through the link, but Eragon wondered if it really understood. After all, it’s

only an animal. He retreated from the contact with relief and felt the safety of his own mind envelop him.

Eragon left the tree, casting glances backward. The dragon stuck its head out of the

shelter and watched with large eyes as he left.

After a hurried walk home, he sneaked back into his room to dispose of the egg

fragments. He was sure Garrow and Roran would not notice the egg’s absence—it had

faded from their thoughts after they learned it could not be sold. When his family got up,

Roran mentioned that he had heard some noises during the night but, to Eragon’s relief,

did not pursue the issue.

Eragon’s enthusiasm made the day go by quickly. The mark on his hand proved easy to

hide, so he soon stopped worrying about it. Before long he headed back to the rowan,

carrying sausages he had pilfered from the cellar. With apprehension, he approached the

tree. Is the dragon able to survive outside in winter?

His fears were groundless. The dragon was perched on a branch, gnawing on something

between its front legs. It started squeaking excitedly when it saw him. He was pleased to

see that it had remained in the tree, above the reach of large predators. As soon as he

dropped the sausages at the base of the trunk, the dragon glided down. While it

voraciously tore apart the food, Eragon examined the shelter. All the meat he had left was

gone, but the hut was intact, and tufts of feathers littered the floor. Good. It can get its own food.

It struck him that he did not know if the dragon was a he or a she. He lifted and turned it

over, ignoring its squeals of displeasure, but was unable to find any distinguishing

marks. It seems like it won’t give up any secrets without a struggle.

He spent a long time with the dragon. He untied it, set it on his shoulder, and went to

explore the woods. The snow-laden trees watched over them like solemn pillars of a great

cathedral. In that isolation, Eragon showed the dragon what he knew about the forest, not

caring if it understood his meaning. It was the simple act of sharing that mattered. He

talked to it continuously. The dragon gazed back at him with bright eyes, drinking in his

words. For a while he just sat with it resting in his arms and watched it with wonder, still

stunned by recent events. Eragon started for home at sunset, conscious of two hard blue

eyes drilling into his back, indignant at being left behind.

That night he brooded about all the things that could happen to a small and unprotected

animal. Thoughts of ice storms and vicious animals tormented him. It took hours for him

to find sleep. His dreams were of foxes and black wolves tearing at the dragon with

bloody teeth.

In the sunrise glow, Eragon ran from the house with food and scraps of cloth—extra

insulation for the shelter. He found the dragon awake and safe, watching the sunrise from

high in the tree. He fervently thanked all the gods, known and unknown. The dragon

came down to the ground as he approached and leapt into his arms, huddling close to his

chest. The cold had not harmed it, but it seemed frightened. A puff of dark smoke blew

out of its nostrils. He stroked it comfortingly and sat with his back to the rowan,

murmuring softly. He kept still as the dragon buried its head in his coat. After a while it

crawled out of his embrace and onto his shoulder. He fed it, then wrapped the new rags

around the hut. They played together for a time, but Eragon had to return to the house

before long.

A smooth routine was quickly established. Every morning Eragon ran out to the tree and

gave the dragon breakfast before hurrying back. During the day he attacked his chores

until they were finished and he could visit the dragon again. Both Garrow and Roran

noted his behavior and asked why he spent so much time outside. Eragon just shrugged

and started checking to make sure he was not followed to the tree.

After the first few days he stopped worrying that a mishap would befall the dragon. Its

growth was explosive; it would soon be safe from most dangers. The dragon doubled in

size in the first week. Four days later it was as high as his knee. It no longer fit inside the hut in the rowan, so Eragon was forced to build a hidden shelter on the ground. The task

took him three days.

When the dragon was a fortnight old, Eragon was compelled to let it roam free because it

needed so much food. The first time he untied it, only the force of his will kept it from

following him back to the farm. Every time it tried, he pushed it away with his mind until

it learned to avoid the house and its other inhabitants.

And he impressed on the dragon the importance of hunting only in the Spine, where there

was less chance of being seen. Farmers would notice if game started disappearing from

Palancar Valley. It made him feel both safer and uneasy when the dragon was so far

away.

The mental contact he shared with the dragon waxed stronger each day. He found that

although it did not comprehend words, he could communicate with it through images or

emotions. It was an imprecise method, however, and he was often misunderstood. The

range at which they could touch each other’s thoughts expanded rapidly. Soon Eragon

could contact the dragon anywhere within three leagues. He often did so, and the dragon,

in turn, would lightly brush against his mind. These mute conversations filled his

working hours. There was always a small part of him connected to the dragon, ignored at

times, but never forgotten. When he talked with people, the contact was distracting, like a

fly buzzing in his ear.

As the dragon matured, its squeaks deepened to a roar and the humming became a low

rumble, yet the dragon did not breathe fire, which concerned him. He had seen it blow

smoke when it was upset, but there was never a hint of flame.

When the month ended, Eragon’s elbow was level with the dragon’s shoulder. In that

brief span, it had transformed from a small, weak animal into a powerful beast. Its hard

scales were as tough as chain-mail armor, its teeth like daggers.

Eragon took long walks in the evening with the dragon padding beside him. When they

found a clearing, he would settle against a tree and watch the dragon soar through the air.

He loved to see it fly and regretted that it was not yet big enough to ride. He often sat

beside the dragon and rubbed its neck, feeling sinews and corded muscles flex under his

hands.

Despite Eragon’s efforts, the forest around the farm filled with signs of the dragon’s

existence. It was impossible to erase all the huge four-clawed footprints sunk deep in the

snow, and he refused even to try to hide the giant dung heaps that were becoming far too

common. The dragon had rubbed against trees, stripping off the bark, and had sharpened

its claws on dead logs, leaving gashes inches deep. If Garrow or Roran went too far

beyond the farm’s boundaries, they would discover the dragon. Eragon could imagine no

worse way for the truth to come out, so he decided to preempt it by explaining everything

to them.

He wanted to do two things first, though: give the dragon a suitable name and learn more

about dragons in general. To that end he needed to talk with Brom, master of epics and

legends—the only places where dragonlore survived.

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

him.

The evening before they left, Eragon went to a small clearing in the forest and called the

dragon with his mind. After a moment he saw a fast-moving speck in the dusky sky. The

dragon dived toward him, pulled up sharply, then leveled off above the trees. He heard a

low-pitched whistle as air rushed over its wings. It banked slowly to his left and spiraled

gently down to the ground. The dragon back-flapped for balance with a deep,

muffled thwump as it landed.

Eragon opened his mind, still uncomfortable with the strange sensation, and told the

dragon that he was leaving. It snorted with unease. He attempted to soothe it with a

calming mental picture, but the dragon whipped its tail, unsatisfied. He rested his hand on

its shoulder and tried to radiate peace and serenity. Scales bumped under his fingers as he

patted it gently.

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

Eragon.

It was solemn and sad, as if an unbreakable pact were being sealed. He stared at the

dragon and a cold tingle ran down his arm.

Eragon.

A hard knot formed in his stomach as unfathomable sapphire eyes gazed back at him. For

the first time he did not think of the dragon as an animal. It was something else,

something . . . different. He raced home, trying to escape the dragon. My dragon.

Eragon.

TEA FORTWO

Roran and Eragon parted at the outskirts of Carvahall. Eragon walked slowly to Brom’s

house, engrossed in his thoughts. He stopped at the doorstep and raised his hand to

knock.

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

He whirled around. Behind him Brom leaned on a twisted staff embellished with strange

carvings. He wore a brown hooded robe like a friar. A pouch hung from the scuffed

leather belt clasped around his waist. Above his white beard, a proud eagle nose hooked

over his mouth and dominated his face. He peered at Eragon with deep-set eyes

shadowed by a gnarled brow and waited for his reply.

“To get information,” Eragon said. “Roran is getting a chisel fixed and I had free time, so

I came to see if you could answer a few questions.”

The old man grunted and reached for the door. Eragon noticed a gold ring on his right

hand. Light glinted off a sapphire, highlighting a strange symbol carved on its face. “You

might as well come in; we’ll be talking awhile. Your questions never seem to end.”

Inside, the house was darker than charcoal, an acrid smell heavy in the air. “Now, for a

light.” Eragon heard the old man move around, then a low curse as something crashed to

the floor. “Ah, here we go.” A white spark flashed; a flame wavered into existence.

Brom stood with a candle before a stone fireplace. Stacks of books surrounded a high-

backed, deeply carved wooden chair that faced the mantel; the four legs were shaped like

eagle claws, and the seat and back were padded with leather embossed with a swirling

rose pattern. A cluster of lesser chairs held piles of scrolls. Ink pots and pens were

scattered across a writing desk. “Make room for yourself, but by the lost kings, be careful

. This stuff is valuable.”

Eragon stepped over pages of parchment covered with angular runes. He gently lifted

cracking scrolls off a chair and placed them on the floor. A cloud of dust flew into the air

as he sat. He stifled a sneeze.

Brom bent down and lit the fire with his candle. “Good! Nothing like sitting by a fire for

conversation.” He threw back his hood to reveal hair that was not white, but silver, then

hung a kettle over the flames and settled into the high-backed chair.

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

“Well,” said Eragon, wondering how best to approach the subject, “I keep hearing about

the Dragon Riders and their supposed accomplishments. Most everyone seems to want

them to return, but I’ve never heard tell of how they were started, where the dragons

came from, or what made the Riders special—aside from the dragons.”

“A vast subject to tell about,” grumbled Brom. He peered at Eragon alertly. “If I told you

their whole story, we would still be sitting here when winter comes again. It will have to

be reduced to a manageable length. But before we start properly, I need my pipe.”

Eragon waited patiently as Brom tamped down the tobacco. He liked Brom. The old man

was irascible at times, but he never seemed to mind taking time for Eragon. Eragon had

once asked him where he came from, and Brom had laughed, saying, “A village much

like Carvahall, only not quite as interesting.” Curiosity aroused, Eragon asked his uncle.

But Garrow could only tell him that Brom had bought a house in Carvahall nearly fifteen

years ago and had lived there quietly ever since.

Brom used a tinderbox to light the pipe. He puffed a few times, then said, “There . . . we

won’t have to stop, except for the tea. Now, about the Riders, or the Shur’tugal, as they

are called by the elves. Where to start? They spanned countless years and, at the height of

their power, held sway over twice the Empire’s lands. Numerous stories have been told

about them, most nonsense. If you believed everything said, you would expect them to

have the powers of a lesser god. Scholars have devoted entire lives to separating these

fictions from fact, but it’s doubtful any of them will succeed. However, it isn’t an

impossible task if we confine ourselves to the three areas you specified: how the Riders

began, why they were so highly regarded, and where dragons came from. I shall start

with the last item.” Eragon settled back and listened to the man’s mesmerizing voice.

“Dragons have no beginning, unless it lies with the creation of Alagaësia itself. And if

they have an end, it will be when this world perishes, for they suffer as the land does.

They, the dwarves, and a few others are the true inhabitants of this land. They lived here

before all others, strong and proud in their elemental glory. Their world was unchanging

until the first elves sailed over the sea on their silver ships.”

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

folk? Do they really exist?”

Brom scowled. “Do you want your original questions answered or not? They won’t be if

you want to explore every obscure piece of knowledge.”

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

“No, you’re not,” said Brom with some amusement. He shifted his gaze to the fire and

watched it lick the underside of the kettle. “If you must know, elves are not legends, and

they are called the fair folk because they are more graceful than any of the other races.

They come from what they call Alalea, though none but they know what, or even where,

it is.

“Now,” he glared from under his bushy eyebrows to make sure there would be no more

interruptions, “the elves were a proud race then, and strong in magic. At first they

regarded dragons as mere animals. From that belief rose a deadly mistake. A brash elven

youth hunted down a dragon, as he would a stag, and killed it. Outraged, the dragons

ambushed and slaughtered the elf. Unfortunately, the bloodletting did not stop there. The

dragons massed together and attacked the entire elven nation. Dismayed by the terrible

misunderstanding, the elves tried to end the hostilities, but couldn’t find a way to

communicate with the dragons.

“Thus, to greatly abbreviate a complicated series of occurrences, there was a very long

and very bloody war, which both sides later regretted. At the beginning the elves fought

only to defend themselves, for they were reluctant to escalate the fighting, but the

dragons’ ferocity eventually forced them to attack for their own survival. This lasted for

five years and would have continued for much longer if an elf called Eragon hadn’t found

a dragon egg.” Eragon blinked in surprise. “Ah, I see you didn’t know of your

namesake,” said Brom.

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

“Then you should find this all the more interesting,” said Brom. He hooked the kettle out

of the fire and poured boiling water into two cups. Handing one to Eragon, he warned,

“These leaves don’t need to steep long, so drink it quickly before it gets too strong.”

Eragon tried a sip, but scalded his tongue. Brom set his own cup aside and continued

smoking the pipe.

“No one knows why that egg was abandoned. Some say the parents were killed in an

elven attack. Others believe the dragons purposefully left it there. Either way, Eragon saw

the value of raising a friendly dragon. He cared for it secretly and, in the custom of the

ancient language, named him Bid’Daum. When Bid’Daum had grown to a good size,

they traveled together among the dragons and convinced them to live in peace with the

elves. Treaties were formed between the two races. To ensure that war would never break

out again, they decided that it was necessary to establish the Riders.

“At first the Riders were intended merely as a means of communication between the

elves and dragons. However, as time passed, their worth was recognized and they were

given ever more authority. Eventually they took the island Vroengard for their home and

built a city on it—Dorú Areaba. Before Galbatorix overthrew them, the Riders held more

power than all the kings in Alagaësia. Now I believe I have answered two of your

questions.”

“Yes,” said Eragon absently. It seemed like an incredible coincidence that he had been

named after the first Rider. For some reason his name did not feel the same anymore.

“What does Eragon mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Brom. “It’s very old. I doubt anyone remembers except the elves,

and fortune would have to smile greatly before you talked with one. It is a good name to

have, though; you should be proud of it. Not everyone has one so honorable.”

Eragon brushed the matter from his mind and focused on what he had learned from

Brom; there was something missing. “I don’t understand. Where were we when the

Riders were created?”

“We?” asked Brom, raising an eyebrow.

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

Brom laughed. “We are no more native to this land than the elves. It took our ancestors

another three centuries to arrive here and join the Riders.”

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

“That might be true for a few generations, but beyond that, no. It isn’t even true for you,

Eragon,” said Brom gently. “Though you consider yourself part of Garrow’s family, and

rightly so, your sire was not from here. Ask around and you’ll find many people who

haven’t been here that long. This valley is old and hasn’t always belonged to us.”

Eragon scowled and gulped at the tea. It was still hot enough to burn his throat. This was

his home, regardless of who his father was! “What happened to the dwarves after the

Riders were destroyed?”

“No one really knows. They fought with the Riders through the first few battles, but

when it became clear Galbatorix was going to win, they sealed all the known entrances to

their tunnels and disappeared underground. As far as I know, not one has been seen

since.”

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

Brom answered sorrowfully, “That is the greatest mystery in Alagaësia nowadays: How

many dragons survived Galbatorix’s murderous slaughter? He spared those who agreed

to serve him, but only the twisted dragons of the Forsworn would assist his madness. If

any dragons aside from Shruikan are still alive, they have hidden themselves so they will

never be found by the Empire.”

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

“No, they followed the elves across the sea, like ticks seeking blood. They were one of

the reasons the Riders became valued for their battle prowess and ability to keep the

peace. . . . Much can be learned from this history. It’s a pity the king makes it a delicate

subject,” reflected Brom.

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

“Story!” roared Brom. Lightning flashed in his eyes. “If it is a story, then the rumors of

my death are true and you are speaking with a ghost! Respect the past; you never know

how it may affect you.”

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

dragons?”

A dark plume of smoke swirled above Brom like a miniature thunderstorm. “Larger than

a house. Even the small ones had wingspans over a hundred feet; they never stopped

growing. Some of the ancient ones, before the Empire killed them, could have passed for

large hills.”

Dismay swept through Eragon. How can I hide my dragon in the years to come? He raged

silently, but kept his voice calm. “When did they mature?”

“Well,” said Brom, scratching his chin, “they couldn’t breathe fire until they were around

five to six months old, which was about when they could mate. The older a dragon was,

the longer it could breathe fire. Some of them could keep at it for minutes.” Brom blew a

smoke ring and watched it float up to the ceiling.

“I heard that their scales shone like gems.”

Brom leaned forward and growled, “You heard right. They came in every color and

shade. It was said that a group of them looked like a living rainbow, constantly shifting

and shimmering. But who told you that?”

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

“What was his name?” asked Brom. His tangled eyebrows met in a thick white line; the

wrinkles deepened on his forehead. Unnoticed, the pipe smoldered out.

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

out who he was.”

“I wish you had,” muttered Brom.

“He also said a Rider could hear his dragon’s thoughts,” said Eragon quickly, hoping that

the fictitious trader would protect him from suspicion.

Brom’s eyes narrowed. Slowly he took out a tinderbox and struck the flint. Smoke rose,

and he took a long pull from the pipe, exhaling slowly. In a flat voice he said, “He was

wrong. It isn’t in any of the stories, and I know them all. Did he say anything else?”

Eragon shrugged. “No.” Brom was too interested in the trader for him to continue the

falsehood. Casually he inquired, “Did dragons live very long?”

Brom did not respond at once. His chin sank to his chest while his fingers tapped the pipe

thoughtfully, light reflecting off his ring. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Yes, a dragon

will live for quite a while, forever, in fact, as long as it isn’t killed and its Rider doesn’t die.”

“How does anyone know that?” objected Eragon. “If dragons die when their Riders do,

they could only live to be sixty or seventy. You said during your . . . narration that Riders

lived for hundreds of years, but that’s impossible.” It troubled him to think of outliving

his family and friends.

A quiet smile curled Brom’s lips as he said slyly, “What is possible is subjective. Some

would say that you cannot travel through the Spine and live, yet you do. It’s a matter of

perspective. You must be very wise to know so much at such a young age.” Eragon

flushed, and the old man chuckled. “Don’t be angry; you can’t be expected to know such

things. You forget that the dragons were magical—they affected everything around them

in strange ways. The Riders were closest to them and experienced this the most. The most

common side effect was an extended life. Our king has lived long enough to make that

apparent, but most people attribute it to his own magical abilities. There were also other,

less noticeable changes. All the Riders were stronger of body, keener of mind, and truer

of sight than normal men. Along with this, a human Rider would slowly acquire pointed

ears, though they were never as prominent as an elf’s.”

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

as well! “Were dragons very smart?”

“Didn’t you pay attention to what I told you earlier!” demanded Brom. “How could the

elves form agreements and peace treaties with dumb brutes? They were as intelligent as

you or I.”

“But they were animals,” persisted Eragon.

Brom snorted. “They were no more animals than we are. For some reason people praise

everything the Riders did, yet ignore the dragons, assuming that they were nothing more

than an exotic means to get from one town to another. They weren’t. The Riders’ great

deeds were only possible because of the dragons. How many men would draw their

swords if they knew a giant fire-breathing lizard—one with more natural cunning and

wisdom than even a king could hope for—would soon be there to stop the violence?

Hmm?” He blew another smoke ring and watched it waft away.

“Did you ever see one?”

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

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

you help me?”

Brom shrugged and quickly listed a stream of names. “There was Jura, Hírador, and

Fundor—who fought the giant sea snake. Galzra, Briam, Ohen the Strong, Gretiem,

Beroan, Roslarb . . .” He added many others. At the very end, he uttered so softly Eragon

almost did not hear, “. . . and Saphira.” Brom quietly emptied his pipe. “Was it any of

those?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Eragon. Brom had given him much to think about, and it was

getting late. “Well, Roran’s probably finished with Horst. I should get back, though I’d

rather not.”

Brom raised an eyebrow. “What, is that it? I expected to be answering your questions

until he came looking for you. No queries about dragon battle tactics or requests for

descriptions of breathtaking aerial combat? Are we done?”

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

followed.

“Very well, then.” He ushered Eragon to the door. “Goodbye. Take care. And don’t

forget, if you remember who that trader was, tell me.”

“I will. Thank you.” Eragon stepped into the glaring winter sunlight, squinting. He slowly

paced away, pondering what he had heard.

ANAME OFPOWER

On the way home Roran said, “There was a stranger from Therinsford at Horst’s

today.”

“What’s his name?” asked Eragon. He sidestepped a patch of ice and continued walking

at a brisk pace. His cheeks and eyes burned from the cold.

“Dempton. He came here to have Horst forge him some sockets,” said Roran. His stocky

legs plowed through a drift, clearing the way for Eragon.

“Doesn’t Therinsford have its own smith?”

“Yes,” replied Roran, “but he isn’t skilled enough.” He glanced at Eragon. With a shrug

he added, “Dempton needs the sockets for his mill. He’s expanding it and offered me a

job. If I accept, I’ll leave with him when he picks up the sockets.”

Millers worked all year. During winter they ground whatever people brought them, but in

harvest season they bought grain and sold it as flour. It was hard, dangerous work;

workers often lost fingers or hands to the giant millstones. “Are you going to tell

Garrow?” asked Eragon.

“Yes.” A grimly amused smile played across Roran’s face.

“What for? You know what he thinks about us going away. It’ll only cause trouble if you

say anything. Forget about it so we can eat tonight’s dinner in peace.”

“I can’t. I’m going to take the job.”

Eragon halted. “Why?” They faced each other, their breath visible in the air. “I know

money is hard to come by, but we always manage to survive. You don’t have to leave.”

“No, I don’t. But the money is for myself.” Roran tried to resume walking, but Eragon

refused to budge.

“What do you need it for?” he demanded.

Roran’s shoulders straightened slightly. “I want to marry.”

Bewilderment and astonishment overwhelmed Eragon. He remembered seeing Katrina

and Roran kissing during the traders’ visit, but marriage? “Katrina?” he asked weakly,

just to confirm. Roran nodded. “Have you asked her?”

“Not yet, but come spring, when I can raise a house, I will.”

“There’s too much work on the farm for you to leave now,” protested Eragon. “Wait until

we’re ready for planting.”

“No,” said Roran, laughing slightly. “Spring’s the time I’ll be needed the most. The

ground will have to be furrowed and sown. The crops must be weeded—not to mention

all the other chores. No, this is the best time for me to go, when all we really do is wait

for the seasons to change. You and Garrow can make do without me. If all goes well, I’ll

soon be back working on the farm, with a wife.”

Eragon reluctantly conceded that Roran made sense. He shook his head, but whether with

amazement or anger, he knew not. “I guess I can only wish you the best of luck. But

Garrow may take this with ill humor.”

“We will see.”

They resumed walking, the silence a barrier between them. Eragon’s heart was disturbed.

It would take time before he could look upon this development with favor. When they

arrived home, Roran did not tell Garrow of his plans, but Eragon was sure that he soon

would.

Eragon went to see the dragon for the first time since it had spoken to him. He

approached apprehensively, aware now that it was an equal.

Eragon.

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

Yes.

His eyes widened at the unexpected reply, and he sat down roughly. Now it has a sense of

humor. What next? Impulsively, he broke a dead branch with his foot. Roran’s

announcement had put him in a foul mood. A questioning thought came from the dragon,

so he told it what had happened. As he talked his voice grew steadily louder until he was

yelling pointlessly into the air. He ranted until his emotions were spent, then ineffectually

punched the ground.

“I don’t want him to go, that’s all,” he said helplessly. The dragon watched impassively,

listening and learning. Eragon mumbled a few choice curses and rubbed his eyes. He

looked at the dragon thoughtfully. “You need a name. I heard some interesting ones

today; perhaps you’ll like one.” He mentally ran through the list Brom had given him

until he found two names that struck him as heroic, noble, and pleasing to the ear. “What

do you think of Vanilor or his successor, Eridor? Both were great dragons.”

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

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

he proposed. It seemed to be laughing at something Eragon did not understand, but he

ignored it and kept suggesting names. “There was Ingothold, he slew the . . .” A

revelation stopped him. That’s the problem! I’ve been choosing male names. You are a

she!

Yes. The dragon folded her wings smugly.

Now that he knew what to look for, he came up with half a dozen names. He toyed with

Miremel, but that did not fit—after all, it was the name of a brown dragon. Opheila and

Lenora were also discarded. He was about to give up when he remembered the last name

Brom had muttered. Eragon liked it, but would the dragon?

He asked.

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

satisfaction.

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

AMILLER-TO-BE

The sun had set by the time dinner was served. A blustery wind howled outside, shaking

the house. Eragon eyed Roran closely and waited for the inevitable. Finally: “I was

offered a job at Therinsford’s mill . . . which I plan to take.”

Garrow finished his mouthful of food with deliberate slowness and laid down his fork.

He leaned back in his chair, then interlaced his fingers behind his head and uttered one

dry word, “Why?”

Roran explained while Eragon absently picked at his food.

“I see,” was Garrow’s only comment. He fell silent and stared at the ceiling. No one

moved as they awaited his response. “Well, when do you leave?”

“What?” asked Roran.

Garrow leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. “Did you think I would stop you? I’d

hoped you would marry soon. It will be good to see this family growing again. Katrina

will be lucky to have you.” Astonishment raced over Roran’s face, then he settled into a

relieved grin. “So when do you leave?” Garrow asked.

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

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

“Two weeks.”

“Good. That will give us time to prepare. It’ll be different to have the house to ourselves.

But if nothing goes amiss, it shouldn’t be for too long.” He looked over the table and

asked, “Eragon, did you know of this?”

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

Garrow ran a hand over his face. “It’s life’s natural course.” He pushed himself up from

the chair. “All will be fine; time will settle everything. For now, though, let’s clean the

dishes.” Eragon and Roran helped him in silence.

The next few days were trying. Eragon’s temper was frayed. Except for curtly answering

direct questions, he spoke with no one. There were small reminders everywhere that

Roran was leaving: Garrow making him a pack, things missing from the walls, and a

strange emptiness that filled the house. It was almost a week before he realized that

distance had grown between Roran and him. When they spoke, the words did not come

easily and their conversations were uncomfortable.

Saphira was a balm for Eragon’s frustration. He could talk freely with her; his emotions

were completely open to her mind, and she understood him better than anyone else.

During the weeks before Roran’s departure, she went through another growth spurt. She

gained twelve inches at the shoulder, which was now higher than Eragon’s. He found that

the small hollow where her neck joined her shoulders was a perfect place to sit. He often

rested there in the evenings and scratched her neck while he explained the meanings of

different words. Soon she understood everything he said and frequently commented on it.

For Eragon, this part of his life was delightful. Saphira was as real and complex as any

person. Her personality was eclectic and at times completely alien, yet they understood

each other on a profound level. Her actions and thoughts constantly revealed new aspects

of her character. Once she caught an eagle and, instead of eating it, released it, saying, No hunter of the sky should end his days as prey. Better to die on the wing than pinned to the ground.

Eragon’s plan to let his family see Saphira was dispelled by Roran’s announcement and

Saphira’s own cautionary words. She was reluctant to be seen, and he, partly out of

selfishness, agreed. The moment her existence was divulged, he knew that shouts,

accusations, and fear would be directed at him . . . so he procrastinated. He told himself

to wait for a sign that it was the right time.

The night before Roran was to leave, Eragon went to talk with him. He stalked down the

hallway to Roran’s open door. An oil lamp rested on a nightstand, painting the walls with

warm flickering light. The bedposts cast elongated shadows on empty shelves that rose to

the ceiling. Roran—his eyes shaded and the back of his neck tense—was rolling blankets

around his clothes and belongings. He paused, then picked up something from the pillow

and bounced it in his hand. It was a polished rock Eragon had given him years ago. Roran

started to tuck it into the bundle, then stopped and set it on a shelf. A hard lump formed

in Eragon’s throat, and he left.

STRANGERS INCARVAHALL

Breakfast was cold, but the tea was hot. Ice inside the windows had melted with the

morning fire and soaked into the wood floor, staining it with dark puddles. Eragon looked

at Garrow and Roran by the kitchen stove and reflected that this would be the last time he

saw them together for many months.

Roran sat in a chair, lacing his boots. His full pack rested on the floor next to him.

Garrow stood between them with his hands stuck deep into his pockets. His shirt hung

loosely; his skin looked drawn. Despite the young men’s cajoling, he refused to go with

them. When pressed for a reason, he only said that it was for the best.

“Do you have everything?” Garrow asked Roran.

“Yes.”

He nodded and took a small pouch from his pocket. Coins clinked as he handed it to

Roran. “I’ve been saving this for you. It isn’t much, but if you wish to buy some bauble

or trinket, it will suffice.”

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

“Do what you will; it is yours,” said Garrow. “I’ve nothing else to give you, except a

father’s blessing. Take it if you wish, but it is worth little.”

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

“Then do, and go in peace,” said Garrow, and kissed him on the forehead. He turned and

said in a louder voice, “Do not think that I have forgotten you, Eragon. I have words for

both of you. It’s time I said them, as you are entering the world. Heed them and they will

serve you well.” He bent his gaze sternly on them. “First, let no one rule your mind or

body. Take special care that your thoughts remain unfettered. One may be a free man and

yet be bound tighter than a slave. Give men your ear, but not your heart. Show respect for

those in power, but don’t follow them blindly. Judge with logic and reason, but comment

not.

“Consider none your superior, whatever their rank or station in life. Treat all fairly or

they will seek revenge. Be careful with your money. Hold fast to your beliefs and others

will listen.” He continued at a slower pace, “Of the affairs of love . . . my only advice is

to be honest. That’s your most powerful tool to unlock a heart or gain forgiveness. That is

all I have to say.” He seemed slightly self-conscious of his speech.

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

waiting.”

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

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

They parted reluctantly. Eragon and Roran went outside, then turned and waved. Garrow

raised a bony hand, his eyes grave, and watched as they trudged to the road. After a long

moment he shut the door. As the sound carried through the morning air, Roran halted.

Eragon looked back and surveyed the land. His eyes lingered on the lone buildings. They

looked pitifully small and fragile. A thin finger of smoke trailing up from the house was

the only proof that the snowbound farm was inhabited.

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

Eragon shivered impatiently and grumbled, “A good one too.” Roran nodded, then

straightened his shoulders and headed into his new future. The house disappeared from

view as they descended the hill.

It was still early when they reached Carvahall, but they found the smithy doors already

open. The air inside was pleasantly warm. Baldor slowly worked two large bellows

attached to the side of a stone forge filled with sparkling coals. Before the forge stood a

black anvil and an iron-bound barrel filled with brine. From a line of neck-high poles

protruding from the walls hung rows of items: giant tongs, pliers, hammers in every

shape and weight, chisels, angles, center punches, files, rasps, lathes, bars of iron and

steel waiting to be shaped, vises, shears, picks, and shovels. Horst and Dempton stood

next to a long table.

Dempton approached with a smile beneath his flamboyant red mustache. “Roran! I’m

glad you came. There’s going to be more work than I can handle with my new

grindstones. Are you ready to go?”

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

“I’ve a few things to take care of first, but we’ll be off within the hour.” Eragon shifted

his feet as Dempton turned to him, tugging at the corner of his mustache. “You must be

Eragon. I would offer you a job too, but Roran got the only one. Maybe in a year or two,

eh?”

Eragon smiled uneasily and shook his hand. The man was friendly. Under other

circumstances Eragon would have liked him, but right then, he sourly wished that the

miller had never come to Carvahall. Dempton huffed. “Good, very good.” He returned

his attention to Roran and started to explain how a mill worked.

“They’re ready to go,” interrupted Horst, gesturing at the table where several bundles

rested. “You can take them whenever you want to.” They shook hands, then Horst left the

smithy, beckoning to Eragon on the way out.

Interested, Eragon followed. He found the smith standing in the street with his arms

crossed. Eragon thrust his thumb back toward the miller and asked, “What do you think

of him?”

Horst rumbled, “A good man. He’ll do fine with Roran.” He absently brushed metal

filings off his apron, then put a massive hand on Eragon’s shoulder. “Lad, do you

remember the fight you had with Sloan?”

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

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

Eragon’s heart fluttered. Why does he want to know? Maybe someone saw Saphira!

Struggling not to panic, he said, “I do, but why do you ask?”

“As soon as you return home, get rid of it.” Horst overrode Eragon’s exclamation. “Two

men arrived here yesterday. Strange fellows dressed in black and carrying swords. It

made my skin crawl just to look at them. Last evening they started asking people if a

stone like yours had been found. They’re at it again today.” Eragon blanched. “No one

with any sense said anything. They know trouble when they see it, but I could name a

few people who will talk.”

Dread filled Eragon’s heart. Whoever had sent the stone into the Spine had finally

tracked it down. Or perhaps the Empire had learned of Saphira. He did not know which

would be worse. Think! Think! The egg is gone. It’s impossible for them to find it now.

But if they know what it was, it’ll be obvious what happened. . . . Saphira might be in

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

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

home.”

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

“I do.” Horst’s face softened. “I may be overreacting, but these strangers give me a bad

feeling. It would be better if you stay home until they leave. I’ll try to keep them away

from your farm, though it may not do any good.”

Eragon looked at him gratefully. He wished he could tell him about Saphira. “I’ll leave

now,” he said, and hurried back to Roran. Eragon clasped his cousin’s arm and bade him

farewell.

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

Eragon almost laughed. For some reason, the question struck him as funny. “There’s

nothing for me to do, and I’m not going to stand around until you go.”

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

months.”

“I’m sure it won’t seem that long,” said Eragon hastily. “Take care and come back soon.”

He hugged Roran, then left. Horst was still in the street. Aware that the smith was

watching, Eragon headed to the outskirts of Carvahall. Once the smithy was out of sight,

he ducked behind a house and sneaked back through the village.

Eragon kept to the shadows as he searched each street, listening for the slightest noise.

His thoughts flashed to his room, where his bow hung; he wished that it was in his hand.

He prowled across Carvahall, avoiding everyone until he heard a sibilant voice from

around a house. Although his ears were keen, he had to strain to hear what was being

said.

“When did this happen?” The words were smooth, like oiled glass, and seemed to worm

their way through the air. Underlying the speech was a strange hiss that made his scalp

prickle.

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

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

A third person spoke. The voice was deep and moist. It conjured up images of creeping

decay, mold, and other things best left untouched. “Are you sure? We would hate to think

you had made a mistake. If that were so, it would be most . . . unpleasant.” Eragon could

imagine only too well what they might do. Would anyone but the Empire dare threaten

people like that? Probably not, but whoever sent the egg might be powerful enough to use

force with impunity.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He had it then. I’m not lying. Plenty of people know about it. Go ask

them.” Sloan sounded shaken. He said something else that Eragon did not catch.

“They have been . . . rather uncooperative.” The words were derisive. There was a pause.

“Your information has been helpful. We will not forget you.” Eragon believed him.

Sloan muttered something, then Eragon heard someone hurrying away. He peered around

the corner to see what was happening. Two tall men stood in the street. Both were

dressed in long black cloaks that were lifted by sheaths poking past their legs. On their

shirts were insignias intricately wrought with silver thread. Hoods shaded their faces, and

their hands were covered by gloves. Their backs were oddly humped, as though their

clothes were stuffed with padding.

Eragon shifted slightly to get a better view. One of the strangers stiffened and grunted

peculiarly to his companion. They both swiveled around and sank into crouches.

Eragon’s breath caught. Mortal fear clenched him. His eyes locked onto their hidden

faces, and a stifling power fell over his mind, keeping him in place. He struggled against

it and screamed to himself, Move! His legs swayed, but to no avail. The strangers stalked toward him with a smooth, noiseless gait. He knew they could see his face now. They

were almost to the corner, hands grasping at swords. . . .

“Eragon!” He jerked as his name was called. The strangers froze in place and hissed.

Brom hurried toward him from the side, head bare and staff in hand. The strangers were

blocked from the old man’s view. Eragon tried to warn him, but his tongue and arms

would not stir. “Eragon!” cried Brom again. The strangers gave Eragon one last look,

then slipped away between the houses.

Eragon collapsed to the ground, shivering. Sweat beaded on his forehead and made his

palms sticky. The old man offered Eragon a hand and pulled him up with a strong arm.

“You look sick; is all well?”

Eragon gulped and nodded mutely. His eyes flickered around, searching for anything

unusual. “I just got dizzy all of a sudden . . . it’s passed. It was very odd—I don’t know

why it happened.”

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

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

“Then home is the best place for you. It’s a long walk, but I’m sure you will feel better by

the time you arrive. Let me escort you to the road.” Eragon did not protest as Brom took

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

passed the houses.

“Why were you looking for me?”

Brom shrugged. “Simple curiosity. I learned you were in town and wondered if you had

remembered the name of that trader.”

Trader? What’s he talking about? Eragon stared blankly; his confusion caught the

attention of Brom’s probing eyes. “No,” he said, and then amended himself, “I’m afraid I

still don’t remember.”

Brom sighed gruffly, as if something had been confirmed, and rubbed his eagle nose.

“Well, then . . . if you do, come tell me. I am most interested in this trader who pretends

to know so much about dragons.” Eragon nodded with a distracted air. They walked in

silence to the road, then Brom said, “Hasten home. I don’t think it would be a good idea

to tarry on the way.” He offered a gnarled hand.

Eragon shook it, but as he let go something in Brom’s hand caught on his mitt and pulled

it off. It fell to the ground. The old man picked it up. “Clumsy of me,” he apologized, and

handed it back. As Eragon took the mitt, Brom’s strong fingers wrapped around his wrist

and twisted sharply. His palm briefly faced upward, revealing the silvery mark. Brom’s

eyes glinted, but he let Eragon yank his hand back and jam it into the mitt.

“Goodbye,” Eragon forced out, perturbed, and hurried down the road. Behind him he

heard Brom whistling a merry tune.

STRANGERS INCARVAHALL

Breakfast was cold, but the tea was hot. Ice inside the windows had melted with the

morning fire and soaked into the wood floor, staining it with dark puddles. Eragon looked

at Garrow and Roran by the kitchen stove and reflected that this would be the last time he

saw them together for many months.

Roran sat in a chair, lacing his boots. His full pack rested on the floor next to him.

Garrow stood between them with his hands stuck deep into his pockets. His shirt hung

loosely; his skin looked drawn. Despite the young men’s cajoling, he refused to go with

them. When pressed for a reason, he only said that it was for the best.

“Do you have everything?” Garrow asked Roran.

“Yes.”

He nodded and took a small pouch from his pocket. Coins clinked as he handed it to

Roran. “I’ve been saving this for you. It isn’t much, but if you wish to buy some bauble

or trinket, it will suffice.”

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

“Do what you will; it is yours,” said Garrow. “I’ve nothing else to give you, except a

father’s blessing. Take it if you wish, but it is worth little.”

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

“Then do, and go in peace,” said Garrow, and kissed him on the forehead. He turned and

said in a louder voice, “Do not think that I have forgotten you, Eragon. I have words for

both of you. It’s time I said them, as you are entering the world. Heed them and they will

serve you well.” He bent his gaze sternly on them. “First, let no one rule your mind or

body. Take special care that your thoughts remain unfettered. One may be a free man and

yet be bound tighter than a slave. Give men your ear, but not your heart. Show respect for

those in power, but don’t follow them blindly. Judge with logic and reason, but comment

not.

“Consider none your superior, whatever their rank or station in life. Treat all fairly or

they will seek revenge. Be careful with your money. Hold fast to your beliefs and others

will listen.” He continued at a slower pace, “Of the affairs of love . . . my only advice is

to be honest. That’s your most powerful tool to unlock a heart or gain forgiveness. That is

all I have to say.” He seemed slightly self-conscious of his speech.

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

waiting.”

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

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

They parted reluctantly. Eragon and Roran went outside, then turned and waved. Garrow

raised a bony hand, his eyes grave, and watched as they trudged to the road. After a long

moment he shut the door. As the sound carried through the morning air, Roran halted.

Eragon looked back and surveyed the land. His eyes lingered on the lone buildings. They

looked pitifully small and fragile. A thin finger of smoke trailing up from the house was

the only proof that the snowbound farm was inhabited.

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

Eragon shivered impatiently and grumbled, “A good one too.” Roran nodded, then

straightened his shoulders and headed into his new future. The house disappeared from

view as they descended the hill.

It was still early when they reached Carvahall, but they found the smithy doors already

open. The air inside was pleasantly warm. Baldor slowly worked two large bellows

attached to the side of a stone forge filled with sparkling coals. Before the forge stood a

black anvil and an iron-bound barrel filled with brine. From a line of neck-high poles

protruding from the walls hung rows of items: giant tongs, pliers, hammers in every

shape and weight, chisels, angles, center punches, files, rasps, lathes, bars of iron and

steel waiting to be shaped, vises, shears, picks, and shovels. Horst and Dempton stood

next to a long table.

Dempton approached with a smile beneath his flamboyant red mustache. “Roran! I’m

glad you came. There’s going to be more work than I can handle with my new

grindstones. Are you ready to go?”

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

“I’ve a few things to take care of first, but we’ll be off within the hour.” Eragon shifted

his feet as Dempton turned to him, tugging at the corner of his mustache. “You must be

Eragon. I would offer you a job too, but Roran got the only one. Maybe in a year or two,

eh?”

Eragon smiled uneasily and shook his hand. The man was friendly. Under other

circumstances Eragon would have liked him, but right then, he sourly wished that the

miller had never come to Carvahall. Dempton huffed. “Good, very good.” He returned

his attention to Roran and started to explain how a mill worked.

“They’re ready to go,” interrupted Horst, gesturing at the table where several bundles

rested. “You can take them whenever you want to.” They shook hands, then Horst left the

smithy, beckoning to Eragon on the way out.

Interested, Eragon followed. He found the smith standing in the street with his arms

crossed. Eragon thrust his thumb back toward the miller and asked, “What do you think

of him?”

Horst rumbled, “A good man. He’ll do fine with Roran.” He absently brushed metal

filings off his apron, then put a massive hand on Eragon’s shoulder. “Lad, do you

remember the fight you had with Sloan?”

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

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

Eragon’s heart fluttered. Why does he want to know? Maybe someone saw Saphira!

Struggling not to panic, he said, “I do, but why do you ask?”

“As soon as you return home, get rid of it.” Horst overrode Eragon’s exclamation. “Two

men arrived here yesterday. Strange fellows dressed in black and carrying swords. It

made my skin crawl just to look at them. Last evening they started asking people if a

stone like yours had been found. They’re at it again today.” Eragon blanched. “No one

with any sense said anything. They know trouble when they see it, but I could name a

few people who will talk.”

Dread filled Eragon’s heart. Whoever had sent the stone into the Spine had finally

tracked it down. Or perhaps the Empire had learned of Saphira. He did not know which

would be worse. Think! Think! The egg is gone. It’s impossible for them to find it now.

But if they know what it was, it’ll be obvious what happened. . . . Saphira might be in

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

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

home.”

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

“I do.” Horst’s face softened. “I may be overreacting, but these strangers give me a bad

feeling. It would be better if you stay home until they leave. I’ll try to keep them away

from your farm, though it may not do any good.”

Eragon looked at him gratefully. He wished he could tell him about Saphira. “I’ll leave

now,” he said, and hurried back to Roran. Eragon clasped his cousin’s arm and bade him

farewell.

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

Eragon almost laughed. For some reason, the question struck him as funny. “There’s

nothing for me to do, and I’m not going to stand around until you go.”

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

months.”

“I’m sure it won’t seem that long,” said Eragon hastily. “Take care and come back soon.”

He hugged Roran, then left. Horst was still in the street. Aware that the smith was

watching, Eragon headed to the outskirts of Carvahall. Once the smithy was out of sight,

he ducked behind a house and sneaked back through the village.

Eragon kept to the shadows as he searched each street, listening for the slightest noise.

His thoughts flashed to his room, where his bow hung; he wished that it was in his hand.

He prowled across Carvahall, avoiding everyone until he heard a sibilant voice from

around a house. Although his ears were keen, he had to strain to hear what was being

said.

“When did this happen?” The words were smooth, like oiled glass, and seemed to worm

their way through the air. Underlying the speech was a strange hiss that made his scalp

prickle.

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

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

A third person spoke. The voice was deep and moist. It conjured up images of creeping

decay, mold, and other things best left untouched. “Are you sure? We would hate to think

you had made a mistake. If that were so, it would be most . . . unpleasant.” Eragon could

imagine only too well what they might do. Would anyone but the Empire dare threaten

people like that? Probably not, but whoever sent the egg might be powerful enough to use

force with impunity.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He had it then. I’m not lying. Plenty of people know about it. Go ask

them.” Sloan sounded shaken. He said something else that Eragon did not catch.

“They have been . . . rather uncooperative.” The words were derisive. There was a pause.

“Your information has been helpful. We will not forget you.” Eragon believed him.

Sloan muttered something, then Eragon heard someone hurrying away. He peered around

the corner to see what was happening. Two tall men stood in the street. Both were

dressed in long black cloaks that were lifted by sheaths poking past their legs. On their

shirts were insignias intricately wrought with silver thread. Hoods shaded their faces, and

their hands were covered by gloves. Their backs were oddly humped, as though their

clothes were stuffed with padding.

Eragon shifted slightly to get a better view. One of the strangers stiffened and grunted

peculiarly to his companion. They both swiveled around and sank into crouches.

Eragon’s breath caught. Mortal fear clenched him. His eyes locked onto their hidden

faces, and a stifling power fell over his mind, keeping him in place. He struggled against

it and screamed to himself, Move! His legs swayed, but to no avail. The strangers stalked toward him with a smooth, noiseless gait. He knew they could see his face now. They

were almost to the corner, hands grasping at swords. . . .

“Eragon!” He jerked as his name was called. The strangers froze in place and hissed.

Brom hurried toward him from the side, head bare and staff in hand. The strangers were

blocked from the old man’s view. Eragon tried to warn him, but his tongue and arms

would not stir. “Eragon!” cried Brom again. The strangers gave Eragon one last look,

then slipped away between the houses.

Eragon collapsed to the ground, shivering. Sweat beaded on his forehead and made his

palms sticky. The old man offered Eragon a hand and pulled him up with a strong arm.

“You look sick; is all well?”

Eragon gulped and nodded mutely. His eyes flickered around, searching for anything

unusual. “I just got dizzy all of a sudden . . . it’s passed. It was very odd—I don’t know

why it happened.”

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

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

“Then home is the best place for you. It’s a long walk, but I’m sure you will feel better by

the time you arrive. Let me escort you to the road.” Eragon did not protest as Brom took

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

passed the houses.

“Why were you looking for me?”

Brom shrugged. “Simple curiosity. I learned you were in town and wondered if you had

remembered the name of that trader.”

Trader? What’s he talking about? Eragon stared blankly; his confusion caught the

attention of Brom’s probing eyes. “No,” he said, and then amended himself, “I’m afraid I

still don’t remember.”

Brom sighed gruffly, as if something had been confirmed, and rubbed his eagle nose.

“Well, then . . . if you do, come tell me. I am most interested in this trader who pretends

to know so much about dragons.” Eragon nodded with a distracted air. They walked in

silence to the road, then Brom said, “Hasten home. I don’t think it would be a good idea

to tarry on the way.” He offered a gnarled hand.

Eragon shook it, but as he let go something in Brom’s hand caught on his mitt and pulled

it off. It fell to the ground. The old man picked it up. “Clumsy of me,” he apologized, and

handed it back. As Eragon took the mitt, Brom’s strong fingers wrapped around his wrist

and twisted sharply. His palm briefly faced upward, revealing the silvery mark. Brom’s

eyes glinted, but he let Eragon yank his hand back and jam it into the mitt.

“Goodbye,” Eragon forced out, perturbed, and hurried down the road. Behind him he

heard Brom whistling a merry tune.

FLIGHT OFDESTINY

Eragon’s mind churned as he sped on his way. He ran as fast as he could, refusing to

stop even when his breath came in great gasps. As he pounded down the cold road, he

cast out with his mind for Saphira, but she was too far away for him to contact. He

thought about what to say to Garrow. There was no choice now; he would have to reveal

Saphira.

He arrived home, panting for air and heart pounding. Garrow stood by the barn with the

horses. Eragon hesitated . Should I talk to him now? He won’t believe me unless Saphira

is here—I’d better find her first. He slipped around the farm and into the forest. Saphira!

he shouted with his thoughts.

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

gout of smoke. What happened? she queried.

He touched her shoulder and closed his eyes. Calming his mind, he quickly told her what

had occurred. When he mentioned the strangers, Saphira recoiled. She reared and roared

deafeningly, then whipped her tail over his head. He scrambled back in surprise, ducking

as her tail hit a snowdrift. Bloodlust and fear emanated from her in great sickening

waves. Fire! Enemies! Death! Murderers!

What’s wrong? He put all of his strength into the words, but an iron wall surrounded her mind, shielding her thoughts. She let out another roar and gouged the earth with her

claws, tearing the frozen ground. Stop it! Garrow will hear!

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

Frantic, he blocked out Saphira’s emotions and watched her tail. When it flicked past

him, he dashed to her side and grabbed a spike on her back. Clutching it, he pulled

himself into the small hollow at the base of her neck and held on tightly as she reared

again. “Enough, Saphira!” he bellowed. Her stream of thoughts ceased abruptly. He ran a

hand over her scales. “Everything’s going to be all right.” She crouched and her wings

rushed upward. They hung there for an instant, then drove down as she flung herself into

the sky.

Eragon yelled as the ground dropped away and they rose above the trees. Turbulence

buffeted him, snatching the breath out of his mouth. Saphira ignored his terror and

banked toward the Spine. Underneath, he glimpsed the farm and the Anora River. His

stomach convulsed. He tightened his arms around Saphira’s neck and concentrated on the

scales in front of his nose, trying not to vomit as she continued to climb. When she

leveled off, he gained the courage to glance around.

The air was so cold that frost accumulated on his eyelashes. They had reached the

mountains faster than he thought possible. From the air, the peaks looked like giant razor-

sharp teeth waiting to slash them to ribbons. Saphira wobbled unexpectedly, and Eragon

heaved over her side. He wiped his lips, tasting bile, and buried his head against her neck.

We have to go back, he pleaded. The strangers are coming to the farm.Garrow has to be warned. Turn around! There was no answer. He reached for her mind, but was blocked

by a barrier of roiling fear and anger. Determined to make her turn around, he grimly

wormed into her mental armor. He pushed at its weak places, undermined the stronger

sections, and fought to make her listen, but to no avail.

Soon mountains surrounded them, forming tremendous white walls broken by granite

cliffs. Blue glaciers sat between the summits like frozen rivers. Long valleys and ravines

opened beneath them. He heard the dismayed screech of birds far below as Saphira

soared into view. He saw a herd of woolly goats bounding from ledge to ledge on a rocky

bluff.

Eragon was battered by swirling gusts from Saphira’s wings, and whenever she moved

her neck, he was tossed from side to side. She seemed tireless. He was afraid she was

going to fly through the night. Finally, as darkness fell, she tilted into a shallow dive.

He looked ahead and saw that they were headed for a small clearing in a valley. Saphira

spiraled down, leisurely drifting over the treetops. She pulled back as the ground neared,

filled her wings with air, and landed on her rear legs. Her powerful muscles rippled as

they absorbed the shock of impact. She dropped to all fours and skipped a step to keep

her balance. Eragon slid off without waiting for her to fold her wings.

As he struck the ground, his knees buckled, and his cheek slammed against the snow. He

gasped as excruciating pain seared through his legs, sending tears to his eyes. His

muscles, cramped from clenching for so long, shook violently. He rolled onto his back,

shivering, and stretched his limbs as best he could. Then he forced himself to look down.

Two large blots darkened his wool pants on the insides of his thighs. He touched the

fabric. It was wet. Alarmed, he peeled off the pants and grimaced. The insides of his legs

were raw and bloody. The skin was gone, rubbed off by Saphira’s hard scales. He

gingerly felt the abrasions and winced. Cold bit into him as he pulled the pants back on,

and he cried out as they scraped against the sensitive wounds. He tried to stand, but his

legs would not support him.

The deepening night obscured his surroundings; the shaded mountains were unfamiliar .

I’m in the Spine, I don’t know where, during the middle of winter, with a crazed dragon,

unable to walk or find shelter. Night is falling. I have to get back to the farm tomorrow.

And the only way to do that is to fly, which I can’t endure anymore. He took a deep

breath. Oh, I wish Saphira could breathe fire. He turned his head and saw her next to him, crouched low to the ground. He put a hand on her side and found it trembling. The barrier

in her mind was gone. Without it, her fear scorched through him. He clamped down on it

and slowly soothed her with gentle images. Why do the strangers frighten you?

Murderers, she hissed.

Garrow is in danger and you kidnap me on this ridiculous journey! Are you unable to

protect me? She growled deeply and snapped her jaws. Ah, but if you think you can, why run?

Death is a poison.

He leaned on one elbow and stifled his frustration. Saphira, look where we are! The sun is

down, and your flight has stripped my legs as easily as I would scale a fish. Is that what

you wanted?

No.

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

temperature deadened Eragon’s legs; although it lessened the pain, he knew that his

condition was not good. He changed tack. I’m going to freeze unless you make me a

shelter or hollow so I can stay warm. Even a pile of pine needles and branches would do.

She seemed relieved that he had stopped interrogating her. There is no need. I will curl

around you and cover you with my wings—the fire inside me will stay the cold.

Eragon let his head thump back on the ground. Fine, but scrape the snow off the ground.

It’ll be more comfortable. In answer, Saphira razed a drift with her tail, clearing it with one powerful stroke. She swept over the site again to remove the last few inches of

hardened snow. He eyed the exposed dirt with distaste. I can’t walk over there. You’ll

have to help me to it. Her head, larger than his torso, swung over him and came to rest by his side. He stared at her large, sapphire-colored eyes and wrapped his hands around one

of her ivory spikes. She lifted her head and slowly dragged him to the bare spot. Gently,

gently. Stars danced in his eyes as he slid over a rock, but he managed to hold on. After he let go, Saphira rolled on her side, exposing her warm belly. He huddled against the

smooth scales of her underside. Her right wing extended over him and enclosed him in

complete darkness, forming a living tent. Almost immediately the air began to lose its

frigidity.

He pulled his arms inside his coat and tied the empty sleeves around his neck. For the

first time he noticed that hunger gnawed at his stomach. But it did not distract him from

his main worry: Could he get back to the farm before the strangers did? And if not, what

would happen? Even if I can force myself to ride Saphira again, it’ll be at least

midafternoon before we get back. The strangers could be there long before that. He

closed his eyes and felt a single tear slide down his face. What have I done?

THEDOOM OFINNOCENCE

When Eragon opened his eyes in the morning, he thought the sky had fallen. An

unbroken plane of blue stretched over his head and slanted to the ground. Still half

asleep, he reached out tentatively and felt a thin membrane under his fingers. It took him

a long minute to realize what he was staring at. He bent his neck slightly and glared at the

scaly haunch his head rested on. Slowly he pushed his legs out from his fetal curl, scabs

cracking. The pain had subsided some from yesterday, but he shrank from the thought of

walking. Burning hunger reminded him of his missed meals. He summoned the energy to

move and pounded weakly on Saphira’s side. “Hey! Wake up!” he yelled.

She stirred and lifted her wing to admit a torrent of sunshine. He squinted as the snow

momentarily blinded him. Beside him Saphira stretched like a cat and yawned, flashing

rows of white teeth. When Eragon’s eyes adjusted, he examined where they were.

Imposing and unfamiliar mountains surrounded them, casting deep shadows on the

clearing. Off to one side, he saw a trail cut through the snow and into the forest, where he

could hear the muffled gurgling of a creek.

Groaning, he stood and swayed, then stiffly hobbled to a tree. He grabbed one of its

branches and threw his weight against it. It held, then broke with a loud crack. He ripped

off the twigs, fit one end of the branch under his arm, and planted the other firmly in the

ground. With the help of his improvised crutch, he limped to the iced-over creek. He

broke through the hard shell and cupped the clear, bitter water. Sated, he returned to the

clearing. As he emerged from the trees, he finally recognized the mountains and the lay

of the land.

This was where, amid deafening sound, Saphira’s egg had first appeared. He sagged

against a rough trunk. There could be no mistake, for now he saw the gray trees that had

been stripped of their needles in the explosion. How did Saphira know where this was?

She was still in the egg. My memories must have given her enough information to find it.

He shook his head in silent astonishment.

Saphira was waiting patiently for him. Will you take me home? he asked her. She cocked her head. I know you don’t want to, but you must. Both of us carry an obligation to

Garrow. He has cared for me and, through me, you. Would you ignore that debt? What

will be said of us in years to come if we don’t return—that we hid like cowards while my

uncle was in danger? I can hear it now, the story of the Rider and his craven dragon! If

there will be a fight, let’s face it and not shy away. You are a dragon! Even a Shade

would run from you! Yet you crouch in the mountains like a frightened rabbit.

Eragon meant to anger her, and he succeeded. A growl rippled in her throat as her head

jabbed within a few inches of his face. She bared her fangs and glared at him, smoke

trailing from her nostrils. He hoped that he had not gone too far. Her thoughts reached

him, red with anger. Blood will meet blood. I will fight. Our wyrds—our fates—bind us,

but try me not. I will take you because of debt owed, but into foolishness we fly.

“Foolishness or not,” he said into the air, “there is no choice—we must go.” He ripped

his shirt in half and stuffed a piece into each side of his pants. Gingerly, he hoisted

himself onto Saphira and took a tight hold on her neck. This time, he told her, fly lower and faster. Time is of the essence.

Don’t let go, she cautioned, then surged into the sky. They rose above the forest and

leveled out immediately, barely staying above the branches. Eragon’s stomach lurched;

he was glad it was empty.

Faster, faster, he urged. She said nothing, but the beat of her wings increased. He screwed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders. He had hoped that the extra padding of his shirt

would protect him, but every movement sent pangs through his legs. Soon lines of hot

blood trickled down his calves. Concern emanated from Saphira. She went even faster

now, her wings straining. The land sped past, as if it were being pulled out from under

them. Eragon imagined that to someone on the ground, they were just a blur.

By early afternoon, Palancar Valley lay before them. Clouds obscured his vision to the

south; Carvahall was to the north. Saphira glided down while Eragon searched for the

farm. When he spotted it, fear jolted him. A black plume with orange flames dancing at

its base rose from the farm.

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

She locked her wings and tilted into a steep dive, hurtling groundward at a frightening

rate. Then she altered her dive slightly so they sped toward the forest. He yelled over the

screaming air, “Land in the fields!” He held on tighter as they plummeted. Saphira waited

until they were only a hundred feet off the ground before driving her wings downward in

several powerful strokes. She landed heavily, breaking his grip. He crashed to the ground,

then staggered upright, gasping for breath.

The house had been blasted apart. Timbers and boards that had been walls and roof were

strewn across a wide area. The wood was pulverized, as if a giant hammer had smashed

it. Sooty shingles lay everywhere. A few twisted metal plates were all that remained of

the stove. The snow was perforated with smashed white crockery and chunks of bricks

from the chimney. Thick, oily smoke billowed from the barn, which burned fiercely. The

farm animals were gone, either killed or frightened away.

“Uncle!” Eragon ran to the wreckage, hunting through the destroyed rooms for Garrow.

There was no sign of him. “Uncle!” Eragon cried again. Saphira walked around the house

and came to his side.

Sorrow breeds here, she said.

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

You would not be alive if we had stayed.

“Look at this!” he screamed. “We could’ve warned Garrow! It’s your fault he didn’t get

away!” He slammed his fist against a pole, splitting the skin on his knuckles. Blood

dripped down his fingers as he stalked out of the house. He stumbled to the path that led

to the road and bent down to examine the snow. Several tracks were before him, but his

vision was blurry and he could barely see. Am I going blind? he wondered. With a

shaking hand, he touched his cheeks and found them wet.

A shadow fell on him as Saphira loomed overhead, sheltering him with her wings. Take

comfort; all may not be lost. He looked up at her, searching for hope. Examine the trail; my eyes see only two sets of prints. Garrow could not have been taken from here.

He focused on the trampled snow. The faint imprints of two pairs of leather boots headed

toward the house. On top of those were traces of the same two sets of boots leaving. And

whoever had made the departing tracks had been carrying the same weight as when they

arrived. You’re right, Garrow has to be here! He leapt to his feet and hurried back to the house.

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

Eragon scrambled into the remains of the kitchen and frantically started digging through

a pile of rubble. Pieces of debris that he could not have moved normally now seemed to

shift on their own accord. A cupboard, mostly intact, stymied him for a second, then he

heaved and sent it flying. As he pulled on a board, something rattled behind him. He spun

around, ready for an attack.

A hand extended from under a section of collapsed roof. It moved weakly, and he

grasped it with a cry. “Uncle, can you hear me?” There was no response. Eragon tore at

pieces of wood, heedless of the splinters that pierced his hands. He quickly exposed an

arm and shoulder, but was barred by a heavy beam. He threw his shoulder at it and

shoved with every fiber of his being, but it defied his efforts. “Saphira! I need you!”

She came immediately. Wood cracked under her feet as she crawled over the ruined

walls. Without a word she nosed past him and set her side against the beam. Her claws

sank into what was left of the floor; her muscles strained. With a grating sound, the beam

lifted, and Eragon rushed under it. Garrow lay on his stomach, his clothes mostly torn off.

Eragon pulled him out of the rubble. As soon as they were clear, Saphira released the

beam, leaving it to crash to the floor.

Eragon dragged Garrow out of the destroyed house and eased him to the ground.

Dismayed, he touched his uncle gently. His skin was gray, lifeless, and dry, as if a fever

had burned off any sweat. His lip was split, and there was a long scrape on his

cheekbone, but that was not the worst. Deep, ragged burns covered most of his body.

They were chalky white and oozed clear liquid. A cloying, sickening smell hung over

him—the odor of rotting fruit. His breath came in short jerks, each one sounding like a

death rattle.

Murderers, hissed Saphira.

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

to Carvahall, though.

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

Can you lift both of us?

I must.

Eragon dug through the rubble until he found a board and leather thongs. He had Saphira

pierce a hole with a claw at each of the board’s corners, then he looped a piece of leather

through each hole and tied them to her forelegs. After checking to make sure the knots

were secure, he rolled Garrow onto the board and lashed him down. As he did, a scrap of

black cloth fell from his uncle’s hand. It matched the strangers’ clothing. He angrily

stuffed it in a pocket, mounted Saphira, and closed his eyes as his body settled into a

steady throb of pain. Now!

She leapt up, hind legs digging into the ground. Her wings clawed at the air as she slowly

climbed. Tendons strained and popped as she battled gravity. For a long, painful second,

nothing happened, but then she lunged forward powerfully and they rose higher. Once

they were over the forest, Eragon told her, Follow the road. It’ll give you enough room if

you have to land.

I might be seen.

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

him from falling.

The extra weight slowed Saphira. Before long her head sagged, and there was froth at her

mouth. She struggled to continue, yet they were almost a league from Carvahall when she

locked her wings and sank toward the road.

Her hind feet touched with a shower of snow. Eragon tumbled off her, landing heavily on

his side to avoid hurting his legs. He struggled to his feet and worked to untie the leather

from Saphira’s legs. Her thick panting filled the air. Find a safe place to rest, he said. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, so you’re going to have to take care of yourself for a

while.

I will wait, she said.

He gritted his teeth and began to drag Garrow down the road. The first few steps sent an

explosion of agony through him. “I can’t do this!” he howled at the sky, then took a few

more steps. His mouth locked into a snarl. He stared at the ground between his feet as he

forced himself to hold a steady pace. It was a fight against his unruly body—a fight he

refused to lose. The minutes crawled by at an excruciating rate. Each yard he covered

seemed many times that. With desperation he wondered if Carvahall still existed or if the

strangers had burnt it down, too. After a time, through a haze of pain, he heard shouting

and looked up.

Brom was running toward him—eyes large, hair awry, and one side of his head caked

with dried blood. He waved his arms wildly before dropping his staff and grabbing

Eragon’s shoulders, saying something in a loud voice. Eragon blinked

uncomprehendingly. Without warning, the ground rushed up to meet him. He tasted

blood, then blacked out.

DEATHWATCH

Dreams roiled in Eragon’s mind, breeding and living by their own laws. He watched as

a group of people on proud horses approached a lonely river. Many had silver hair and

carried tall lances. A strange, fair ship waited for them, shining under a bright moon.

The figures slowly boarded the vessel; two of them, taller than the rest, walked arm in

arm. Their faces were obscured by cowls, but he could tell that one was a woman. They

stood on the deck of the ship and faced the shore. A man stood alone on the pebble beach,

the only one who had not boarded the ship. He threw back his head and let out a long,

aching cry. As it faded, the ship glided down the river, without a breeze or oars, out into the flat, empty land. The vision clouded, but just before it disappeared, Eragon glimpsed

two dragons in the sky.

Eragon was first aware of the creaking: back and forth, back and forth. The persistent

sound made him open his eyes and stare at the underside of a thatched roof. A rough

blanket was draped over him, concealing his nakedness. Someone had bandaged his legs

and tied a clean rag around his knuckles.

He was in a single-room hut. A mortar and pestle sat on a table with bowls and plants.

Rows of dried herbs hung from the walls and suffused the air with strong, earthy aromas.

Flames writhed inside a fireplace, before which sat a rotund woman in a wicker rocking

chair—the town healer, Gertrude. Her head lolled, eyes closed. A pair of knitting needles

and a ball of wool thread rested in her lap.

Though Eragon felt drained of willpower, he made himself sit up. That helped to clear his

mind. He sifted through his memories of the last two days. His first thought was of

Garrow, and his second was of Saphira. I hope she’s in a safe place. He tried to contact her but could not. Wherever she was, it was far from Carvahall. At least Brom got me to

Carvahall. I wonder what happened to him? There was all that blood.

Gertrude stirred and opened her sparkling eyes. “Oh,” she said. “You’re awake. Good!”

Her voice was rich and warm. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough. Where’s Garrow?”

Gertrude dragged the chair close to the bed. “Over at Horst’s. There wasn’t enough room

to keep both of you here. And let me tell you, it’s kept me on my toes, having to run back

and forth, checking to see if the two of you were all right.”

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

There was a long delay as she examined her hands. “Not good. He has a fever that refuses

to break, and his injuries aren’t healing.”

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

“Not until you eat,” she said sharply, pushing him down. “I didn’t spend all this time

sitting by your side so you can get back up and hurt yourself. Half the skin on your legs

was torn off, and your fever broke only last night. Don’t worry yourself about Garrow.

He’ll be fine. He’s a tough man.” Gertrude hung a kettle over the fire, then began

chopping parsnips for soup.

“How long have I been here?”

“Two full days.”

Two days! That meant his last meal had been four mornings ago! Just thinking about it

made Eragon feel weak. Saphira’s been on her own this entire time; I hope she’s all right.

“The whole town wants to know what happened. They sent men down to your farm and

found it destroyed.” Eragon nodded; he had expected that. “Your barn was burned down.

. . . Is that how Garrow was injured?”

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

“Well, no matter. I’m sure it’ll all get untangled.” Gertrude resumed knitting while the

soup cooked. “That’s quite a scar on your palm.”

He reflexively clenched his hand. “Yes.”

“How did you get it?”

Several possible answers came to mind. He chose the simplest one. “I’ve had it ever since

I can remember. I never asked Garrow where it came from.”

“Mmm.” The silence remained unbroken until the soup reached a rolling boil. Gertrude

poured it in a bowl and handed it to Eragon with a spoon. He accepted it gratefully and

took a cautious sip. It was delicious.

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

Gertrude sighed. “You’re a determined one, aren’t you? Well, if you really want to, I

won’t stop you. Put on your clothes and we’ll go.”

She turned her back as he struggled into his pants, wincing as they dragged over the

bandages, and then slipped on his shirt. Gertrude helped him stand. His legs were weak,

but they did not pain him like before.

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

crawl there.”

Outside, a blustery wind blew smoke from the adjacent buildings into their faces. Storm

clouds hid the Spine and covered the valley while a curtain of snow advanced toward the

village, obscuring the foothills. Eragon leaned heavily on Gertrude as they made their

way through Carvahall.

Horst had built his two-story house on a hill so he could enjoy a view of the mountains.

He had lavished all of his skill on it. The shale roof shadowed a railed balcony that

extended from a tall window on the second floor. Each water spout was a snarling

gargoyle, and every window and door was framed by carvings of serpents, harts, ravens,

and knotted vines.

The door was opened by Elain, Horst’s wife, a small, willowy woman with refined

features and silky blond hair pinned into a bun. Her dress was demure and neat, and her

movements graceful. “Please, come in,” she said softly. They stepped over the threshold

into a large well-lit room. A staircase with a polished balustrade curved down to the

floor. The walls were the color of honey. Elain gave Eragon a sad smile, but addressed

Gertrude. “I was just about to send for you. He isn’t doing well. You should see him right

away.”

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

at a time.

“It’s okay, I can do it myself.”

“Are you sure?” asked Elain. He nodded, but she looked doubtful. “Well . . . as soon as

you’re done come visit me in the kitchen. I have a fresh-baked pie you might enjoy.” As

soon as she left, he sagged against the wall, welcoming the support. Then he started up

the stairs, one painful step at a time. When he reached the top, he looked down a long

hallway dotted with doors. The last one was open slightly. Taking a breath, he lurched

toward it.

Katrina stood by a fireplace, boiling rags. She looked up, murmured a condolence, and

then returned to her work. Gertrude stood beside her, grinding herbs for a poultice. A

bucket by her feet held snow melting into ice water.

Garrow lay on a bed piled high with blankets. Sweat covered his brow, and his eyeballs

flickered blindly under their lids. The skin on his face was shrunken like a cadaver’s. He

was still, save for subtle tremors from his shallow breathing. Eragon touched his uncle’s

forehead with a feeling of unreality. It burned against his hand. He apprehensively lifted

the edge of the blankets and saw that Garrow’s many wounds were bound with strips of

cloth. Where the bandages were being changed, the burns were exposed to the air. They

had not begun to heal. Eragon looked at Gertrude with hopeless eyes. “Can’t you do

anything about these?”

She pressed a rag into the bucket of ice water, then draped the cool cloth over Garrow’s

head. “I’ve tried everything: salves, poultices, tinctures, but nothing works. If the wounds

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

and strong.”

Eragon moved to a corner and sank to the floor. This isn’t the way things are supposed to

be! Silence swallowed his thoughts. He stared blankly at the bed. After a while he noticed Katrina kneeling beside him. She put an arm around him. When he did not respond, she

diffidently left.

Sometime later the door opened and Horst came in. He talked to Gertrude in a low voice,

then approached Eragon. “Come on. You need to get out of here.” Before Eragon could

protest, Horst dragged him to his feet and shepherded him out the door.

“I want to stay,” he complained.

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

Horst.

Eragon grudgingly let the smith help him downstairs into the kitchen. Heady smells from

half a dozen dishes—rich with spices and herbs—filled the air. Albriech and Baldor were

there, talking with their mother as she kneaded bread. The brothers fell silent as they saw

Eragon, but he had heard enough to know that they were discussing Garrow.

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

Eragon sank into it gratefully. “Thank you.” His hands were shaking slightly, so he

clasped them in his lap. A plate, piled high with food, was set before him.

“You don’t have to eat,” said Elain, “but it’s there if you want.” She returned to her

cooking as he picked up a fork. He could barely swallow a few bites.

“How do you feel?” asked Horst.

“Terrible.”

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

what happened?”

“I don’t really remember.”

“Eragon,” said Horst, leaning forward, “I was one of the people who went out to your

farm. Your house didn’t just fall apart—something tore it to pieces. Surrounding it were

tracks of a gigantic beast I’ve never seen nor heard of before. Others saw them too. Now,

if there’s a Shade or a monster roaming around, we have to know. You’re the only one

who can tell us.”

Eragon knew he had to lie. “When I left Carvahall . . . ,” he counted up the time, “four

days ago, there were . . . strangers in town asking about a stone like the one I found.” He

gestured at Horst. “You talked to me about them, and because of that, I hurried home.”

All eyes were upon him. He licked his lips. “Nothing . . . nothing happened that night.

The next morning I finished my chores and went walking in the forest. Before long I

heard an explosion and saw smoke above the trees. I rushed back as fast as I could, but

whoever did it was already gone. I dug through the wreckage and . . . found Garrow.”

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

“Yes,” said Eragon, “but before I left, I looked at the path to the road. There were two

pairs of tracks on it, both of them men’s.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the scrap

of black fabric. “This was clenched in Garrow’s hand. I think it matches what those

strangers were wearing.” He set it on the table.

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

were they injured?”

“I’m not sure,” said Eragon, shaking his head. “I think it happened when I dug Garrow

out, but I don’t know. It wasn’t until the blood started dripping down my legs that I

noticed it.”

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Elain.

“We should pursue those men,” stated Albriech hotly. “They can’t get away with this!

With a pair of horses we could catch them tomorrow and bring them back here.”

“Put that foolishness out of your head,” said Horst. “They could probably pick you up

like a baby and throw you in a tree. Remember what happened to the house? We don’t

want to get in the way of those people. Besides, they have what they want now.” He

looked at Eragon. “They did take the stone, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t in the house.”

“Then there’s no reason for them to return now that they have it.” He gave Eragon a

piercing look. “You didn’t mention anything about those strange tracks. Do you know

where they came from?”

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

Baldor abruptly spoke. “I don’t like this. Too much of this rings of wizardry. Who are

those men? Are they Shades? Why did they want the stone, and how could they have

destroyed the house except with dark powers? You may be right, Father, the stone might

be all they wanted, but I think we will see them again.”

Silence followed his words.

Something had been overlooked, though Eragon was not sure what. Then it struck him.

With a sinking heart, he voiced his suspicion. “Roran doesn’t know, does he?” How could

I have forgotten him?

Horst shook his head. “He and Dempton left a little while after you. Unless they ran into

some difficulty on the road, they’ve been in Therinsford for a couple of days now. We

were going to send a message, but the weather was too cold yesterday and the day

before.”

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

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

Baldor turned to Eragon. “I’ll break it to him gently,” he promised, then followed Horst

and Albriech out of the kitchen.

Eragon remained at the table, his eyes focused on a knot in the wood. Every excruciating

detail was clear to him: the twisting grain, an asymmetrical bump, three little ridges with

a fleck of color. The knot was filled with endless detail; the closer he looked, the more he

saw. He searched for answers in it, but if there were any, they eluded him.

A faint call broke through his pounding thoughts. It sounded like yelling from outside. He

ignored it. Let someone else deal with it. Several minutes later he heard it again, louder than before. Angrily, he blocked it out. Why can’t they be quiet? Garrow’s resting. He glanced at Elain, but she did not seem to be bothered by the noise.

ERAGON! The roar was so strong he almost fell out of the chair. He peered around in

alarm, but nothing had changed. He suddenly realized that the shouts had been inside his

head.

Saphira? he asked anxiously.

There was a pause. Yes, stone ears.

Relief seeped into him. Where are you?

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

you were beyond reach.

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

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

Did you catch anything?

A young buck. He was wise enough to guard against the predators of land, but not those

of sky. When I first caught him in my jaws, he kicked vigorously and tried to escape. I

was stronger, though, and when defeat became unavoidable, he gave up and died. Does

Garrow also fight the inevitable?

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

make yourself comfortable.

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

They parted reluctantly. He looked out a window and was surprised to see that the sun

had set. Feeling very tired, he limped to Elain, who was wrapping meat pies with oilcloth.

“I’m going back to Gertrude’s house to sleep,” he said.

She finished with the packages and asked, “Why don’t you stay with us? You’ll be closer

to your uncle, and Gertrude can have her bed back.”

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

“Of course.” She wiped her hands. “Come with me; I’ll get everything ready.” She

escorted him upstairs to an empty room. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you need

anything else?” she asked. He shook his head. “In that case, I’ll be downstairs. Call me if

you need help.” He listened as she descended the stairs. Then he opened the door and

slipped down the hallway to Garrow’s room. Gertrude gave him a small smile over her

darting knitting needles.

“How is he?” whispered Eragon.

Her voice rasped with fatigue. “He’s weak, but the fever’s gone down a little and some of

the burns look better. We’ll have to wait and see, but this could mean he’ll recover.”

That lightened Eragon’s mood, and he returned to his room. The darkness seemed

unfriendly as he huddled under the blankets. Eventually he fell asleep, healing the

wounds his body and soul had suffered.

THEMADNESS OFLIFE

It was dark when Eragon jolted upright in bed, breathing hard. The room was chilly;

goose bumps formed on his arms and shoulders. It was a few hours before dawn—the

time when nothing moves and life waits for the first warm touches of sunlight.

His heart pounded as a terrible premonition gripped him. It felt like a shroud lay over the

world, and its darkest corner was over his room. He quietly got out of bed and dressed.

With apprehension he hurried down the hallway. Alarm shot through him when he saw

the door to Garrow’s room open and people clustered inside.

Garrow lay peacefully on the bed. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair had been

combed back, and his face was calm. He might have been sleeping if not for the silver

amulet clasped around his neck and the sprig of dried hemlock on his chest, the last gifts

from the living to the dead.

Katrina stood next to the bed, face pale and eyes downcast. He heard her whisper, “I had

hoped to call him Father one day. . . .”

Call him Father, he thought bitterly, a right even I don’t have. He felt like a ghost, drained of all vitality. Everything was insubstantial except for Garrow’s face. Tears flooded

Eragon’s cheeks. He stood there, shoulders shaking, but did not cry out. Mother, aunt,

uncle—he had lost them all. The weight of his grief was crushing, a monstrous force that

left him tottering. Someone led him back to his room, uttering consolations.

He fell on the bed, wrapped his arms around his head, and sobbed convulsively. He felt

Saphira contact him, but he pushed her aside and let himself be swept away by sorrow.

He could not accept that Garrow was gone. If he did, what was left to believe in? Only a

merciless, uncaring world that snuffed lives like candles before a wind. Frustrated and

terrified, he turned his tear-dampened face toward the heavens and shouted, “What god

would do this? Show yourself!” He heard people running to his room, but no answer

came from above. “He didn’t deserve this!”

Comforting hands touched him, and he was aware of Elain sitting next to him. She held

him as he cried, and eventually, exhausted, he slipped unwillingly into sleep.

ARIDER’SBLADE

Anguish enveloped Eragon as he awoke. Though he kept his eyes closed, they could not

stop a fresh flow of tears. He searched for some idea or hope to help him keep his sanity. I can’t live with this, he moaned.

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

How? Garrow is gone forever! And in time, I must meet the same fate. Love, family,

accomplishments—they are all torn away, leaving nothing. What is the worth of anything

we do?

The worth is in the act. Your worth halts when you surrender the will to change and

experience life. But options are before you; choose one and dedicate yourself to it. The

deeds will give you new hope and purpose.

But what can I do?

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

She left him to ponder her statements. Eragon examined his emotions. It surprised him

that, more than grief, he found a searing anger. What do you want me to do . . . pursue the strangers?

Yes.

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

Remember what you said in the Spine? How you reminded me of my duty as dragon, and

I returned with you despite the urging of my instinct? So, too, must you control yourself. I thought long and deep the past few days, and I realized what it means to be dragon and

Rider: It is our destiny to attempt the impossible, to accomplish great deeds regardless of fear. It is our responsibility to the future.

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

Then here are others. My tracks have been seen, and people are alert to my presence.

Eventually I will be exposed. Besides, there is nothing here for you. No farm, no family,

and—

Roran’s not dead! he said vehemently.

But if you stay, you’ll have to explain what really happened. He has a right to know how

and why his father died. What might he do once he knows of me?

Saphira’s arguments whirled around in Eragon’s head, but he shrank from the idea of

forsaking Palancar Valley; it was his home. Yet the thought of enacting vengeance on the

strangers was fiercely comforting. Am I strong enough for this?

You have me.

Doubt besieged him. It would be such a wild, desperate thing to do. Contempt for his

indecision rose, and a harsh smile danced on his lips. Saphira was right. Nothing mattered

anymore except the act itself. The doing is the thing. And what would give him more

satisfaction than hunting down the strangers? A terrible energy and strength began to

grow in him. It grabbed his emotions and forged them into a solid bar of anger with one

word stamped on it: revenge. His head pounded as he said with conviction, I will do it.

He severed the contact with Saphira and rolled out of bed, his body tense like a coiled

spring. It was still early morning; he had only slept a few hours. Nothing is more

dangerous than an enemy with nothing to lose, he thought. Which is what I have become.

Yesterday he had had difficulty walking upright, but now he moved confidently, held in

place by his iron will. The pain his body sent him was defied and ignored.

As he crept out of the house, he heard the murmur of two people talking. Curious, he

stopped and listened. Elain was saying in her gentle voice, “. . . place to stay. We have

room.” Horst answered inaudibly in his bass rumble. “Yes, the poor boy,” replied Elain.

This time Eragon could hear Horst’s response. “Maybe . . .” There was a long pause.

“I’ve been thinking about what Eragon said, and I’m not sure he told us everything.”

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

“When we started for their farm, the road was scraped smooth by the board he dragged

Garrow on. Then we reached a place where the snow was all trampled and churned up.

His footprints and signs of the board stopped there, but we also saw the same giant tracks

from the farm. And what about his legs? I can’t believe he didn’t notice losing that much

skin. I didn’t want to push him for answers earlier, but now I think I will.”

“Maybe what he saw scared him so much that he doesn’t want to talk about it,” suggested

Elain. “You saw how distraught he was.”

“That still doesn’t explain how he managed to get Garrow nearly all the way here without

leaving any tracks.”

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

The streets were clear; few people were up at this time of day. He stopped for a minute

and forced himself to focus. I don’t need a horse. Saphira will be my steed, but she needs

a saddle. She can hunt for both of us, so I don’t have to worry about food—though I

should get some anyway. Whatever else I need I can find buried in our house.

He went to Gedric’s tanning vats on the outskirts of Carvahall. The vile smell made him

cringe, but he kept moving, heading for a shack set into the side of a hill where the cured

hides were stored. He cut down three large ox hides from the rows of skins hanging from

the ceiling. The thievery made him feel guilty, but he reasoned, It’s not really stealing. I’ll pay Gedric back someday, along with Horst. He rolled up the thick leather and took it to a stand of trees away from the village. He wedged the hides between the branches of a

tree, then returned to Carvahall.

Now for food. He went to the tavern, intending to get it there, but then smiled tightly and reversed direction. If he was going to steal, it might as well be from Sloan. He sneaked up

to the butcher’s house. The front door was barred whenever Sloan was not there, but the

side door was secured with only a thin chain, which he broke easily. The rooms inside

were dark. He fumbled blindly until his hands came upon hard piles of meat wrapped in

cloth. He stuffed as many of them as he could under his shirt, then hurried back to the

street and furtively closed the door.

A woman shouted his name nearby. He clasped the bottom of his shirt to keep the meat

from falling out and ducked behind a corner. He shivered as Horst walked between two

houses not ten feet away.

Eragon ran as soon as Horst was out of sight. His legs burned as he pounded down an

alley and back to the trees. He slipped between the tree trunks, then turned to see if he

was being pursued. No one was there. Relieved, he let out his breath and reached into the

tree for the leather. It was gone.

“Going somewhere?”

Eragon whirled around. Brom scowled angrily at him, an ugly wound on the side of his

head. A short sword hung at his belt in a brown sheath. The hides were in his hands.

Eragon’s eyes narrowed in irritation. How had the old man managed to sneak up on him?

Everything had been so quiet, he would have sworn that no one was around. “Give them

back,” he snapped.

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

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

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

“Nowhere.” Eragon lunged for the skins and grabbed them from Brom’s hands. Brom did

nothing to stop him.

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

Eragon froze. “What are you talking about?”

Brom crossed his arms. “Don’t fool with me. I know where that mark on your hand, the

gedwëy ignasia, the shining palm, comes from: you have touched a dragon hatchling. I

know why you came to me with those questions, and I know that once more the Riders

live.”

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

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

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

hollow voice.

Brom stared into the distance and moved his lips soundlessly as if he were talking to

someone else. Then he said, “There were clues and hints everywhere; I had only to pay

attention. Anyone with the right knowledge could have done the same. Tell me, how is

your dragon?”

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

“Ah, your legs. You were flying?”

How did Brom figure that out? What if the strangers coerced him into doing this? Maybe

they want him to discover where I’m going so they can ambush us. And where is

Saphira? He reached out with his mind and found her circling far overhead. Come!

No, I will watch for a time.

Why!

Because of the slaughter at Dorú Areaba.

What?

Brom leaned against a tree with a slight smile. “I have talked with her, and she has agreed

to stay above us until we settle our differences. As you can see, you really don’t have any

choice but to answer my questions. Now tell me, where are you going?”

Bewildered, Eragon put a hand to his temple. How could Brom speak to Saphira? The

back of his head throbbed and ideas whirled through his mind, but he kept reaching the

same conclusion: he had to tell the old man something. He said, “I was going to find a

safe place to stay while I heal.”

“And after that?”

The question could not be ignored. The throbbing in his head grew worse. It was

impossible to think; nothing seemed clear anymore. All he wanted to do was tell someone

about the events of the past few months. It tore at him that his secret had caused Garrow’s

death. He gave up and said tremulously, “I was going to hunt down the strangers and kill

them.”

“A mighty task for one so young,” Brom said in a normal tone, as if Eragon had proposed

the most obvious and suitable thing to do. “Certainly a worthy endeavor and one you are

fit to carry out, yet it strikes me that help would not be unwelcome.” He reached behind a

bush and pulled out a large pack. His tone became gruff. “Anyway, I’m not going to stay

behind while some stripling gets to run around with a dragon.”

Is he really offering help, or is it a trap? Eragon was afraid of what his mysterious

enemies could do. But Brom convinced Saphira to trust him, and they’ve talked through

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

“Then we had best be going,” said Brom. His face blanked for a moment. “I think you’ll

find that your dragon will listen to you again.”

Saphira? asked Eragon.

Yes.

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

Yes. So you reached an agreement?

I guess so. She broke contact and soared away. He glanced at Carvahall and saw people

running from house to house. “I think they’re looking for me.”

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

Eragon hesitated. “I’d like to leave a message for Roran. It doesn’t seem right to run off

without telling him why.”

“It’s been taken care of,” assured Brom. “I left a letter for him with Gertrude, explaining

a few things. I also cautioned him to be on guard for certain dangers. Is that satisfactory?”

Eragon nodded. He wrapped the leather around the meat and started off. They were

careful to stay out of sight until they reached the road, then quickened their pace, eager to

distance themselves from Carvahall. Eragon plowed ahead determinedly, his legs

burning. The mindless rhythm of walking freed his mind to think. Once we get home, I

won’t travel any farther with Brom until I get some answers, he told himself firmly . I hope that he can tell me more about the Riders and whom I’m fighting.

As the wreckage of the farm came into view, Brom’s eyebrows beetled with anger.

Eragon was dismayed to see how swiftly nature was reclaiming the farm. Snow and dirt

were already piled inside the house, concealing the violence of the strangers’ attack. All

that remained of the barn was a rapidly eroding rectangle of soot.

Brom’s head snapped up as the sound of Saphira’s wings drifted over the trees. She dived

past them from behind, almost brushing their heads. They staggered as a wall of air

buffeted them. Saphira’s scales glittered as she wheeled over the farm and landed

gracefully.

Brom stepped forward with an expression both solemn and joyous. His eyes were

shining, and a tear shone on his cheek before it disappeared into his beard. He stood there

for a long while, breathing heavily as he watched Saphira, and she him. Eragon heard him

muttering and edged closer to listen.

“So . . . it starts again. But how and where will it end? My sight is veiled; I cannot tell if

this be tragedy or farce, for the elements of both are here. . . . However it may be, my

station is unchanged, and I . . .”

Whatever else he might have said faded away as Saphira proudly approached them.

Eragon passed Brom, pretended he had heard nothing, and greeted her. There was

something different between them now, as if they knew each other even more intimately,

yet were still strangers. He rubbed her neck, and his palm tingled as their minds touched.

A strong curiosity came from her.

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

You’ve viewed people through my eyes.

It’s not the same. She came closer and turned her long head so that she could inspect

Brom with one large blue eye. You really are queer creatures, she said critically, and continued to stare at him. Brom held still as she sniffed the air, and then he extended a

hand to her. Saphira slowly bowed her head and allowed him to touch her on the brow.

With a snort, she jerked back and retreated behind Eragon. Her tail flicked over the

ground.

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

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

“Saphira.” A peculiar expression crossed Brom’s face. He ground the butt of his staff into

the earth with such force his knuckles turned white. “Of all the names you gave me, it

was the only one she liked. I think it fits,” Eragon added quickly.

“Fit it does,” said Brom. There was something in his voice Eragon could not identify.

Was it loss, wonder, fear, envy? He was not sure; it could have been none of them or all.

Brom raised his voice and said, “Greetings, Saphira. I am honored to meet you.” He

twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed.

I like him, said Saphira quietly.

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

alive.

Eragon climbed into the house and crawled under a door into what was left of his room.

He barely recognized it under the piles of shattered wood. Guided by memory, he

searched where the inside wall had been and found his empty pack. Part of the frame was

broken, but the damage could be easily repaired. He kept rummaging and eventually

uncovered the end of his bow, which was still in its buckskin tube.

Though the leather was scratched and scuffed, he was pleased to see that the oiled wood

was unharmed. Finally, some luck. He strung the bow and pulled on the sinew

experimentally. It bent smoothly, without any snaps or creaks. Satisfied, he hunted for his

quiver, which he found buried nearby. Many of the arrows were broken.

He unstrung the bow and handed it and the quiver to Brom, who said, “It takes a strong

arm to pull that.” Eragon took the compliment silently. He picked through the rest of the

house for other useful items and dumped the collection next to Brom. It was a meager

pile. “What now?” asked Brom. His eyes were sharp and inquisitive. Eragon looked

away.

“We find a place to hide.”

“Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“Yes.” He wrapped all the supplies, except for his bow, into a tight bundle and tied it

shut. Hefting it onto his back, he said, “This way,” and headed into the forest. Saphira,

follow us in the air. Your footprints are too easily found and tracked.

Very well. She took off behind them.

Their destination was nearby, but Eragon took a circuitous route in an effort to baffle any

pursuers. It was well over an hour before he finally stopped in a well-concealed bramble.

The irregular clearing in the center was just large enough for a fire, two people, and a

dragon. Red squirrels scampered into the trees, chattering in protest at their intrusion.

Brom extricated himself from a vine and looked around with interest. “Does anyone else

know of this?” he asked.

“No. I found it when we first moved here. It took me a week to dig into the center, and

another week to clear out all the deadwood.” Saphira landed beside them and folded her

wings, careful to avoid the thorns. She curled up, snapping twigs with her hard scales,

and rested her head on the ground. Her unreadable eyes followed them closely.

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

nervous.

Eragon watched them until hunger forced him to action. He built a fire, filled a pot with

snow, and then set it over the flames to melt. When the water was hot, he tore off chunks

of meat and dropped them into the pot with a lump of salt. Not much of a meal, he thought grimly, but it’ll do. I’ll probably be eating this for some time to come, so I might as well get used to it.

The stew simmered quietly, spreading a rich aroma through the clearing. The tip of

Saphira’s tongue snaked out and tasted the air. When the meat was tender, Brom came

over and Eragon served the food. They ate silently, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Afterward, Brom pulled out his pipe and lit it leisurely.

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

A cloud of smoke left Brom’s lips and spiraled up through the trees until it disappeared.

“I have a vested interest in keeping you alive,” he said.

“What do you mean?” demanded Eragon.

“To put it bluntly, I’m a storyteller and I happen to think that you will make a fine story.

You’re the first Rider to exist outside of the king’s control for over a hundred years.

What will happen? Will you perish as a martyr? Will you join the Varden? Or will you

kill King Galbatorix? All fascinating questions. And I will be there to see every bit of it,

no matter what I have to do.”

A knot formed in Eragon’s stomach. He could not see himself doing any of those things,

least of all becoming a martyr. I want my vengeance, but for the rest . . . I have no

ambition. “That may be, but tell me, how can you talk with Saphira?”

Brom took his time putting more tobacco in his pipe. Once it was relit and firmly in his

mouth, he said, “Very well, if it’s answers you want, it’s answers you’ll get, but they may

not be to your liking.” He got up, brought his pack over to the fire, and pulled out a long

object wrapped in cloth. It was about five feet long and, from the way he handled it,

rather heavy.

He peeled away the cloth, strip by strip, like a mummy being unswathed. Eragon gazed,

transfixed, as a sword was revealed. The gold pommel was teardrop shaped with the sides

cut away to reveal a ruby the size of a small egg. The hilt was wrapped in silver wire,

burnished until it gleamed like starlight. The sheath was wine red and smooth as glass,

adorned solely by a strange black symbol etched into it. Next to the sword was a leather

belt with a heavy buckle. The last strip fell away, and Brom passed the weapon to

Eragon.

The handle fit Eragon’s hand as if it had been made for him. He slowly drew the sword; it

slid soundlessly from the sheath. The flat blade was iridescent red and shimmered in the

firelight. The keen edges curved gracefully to a sharp point. A duplicate of the black

symbol was inscribed on the metal. The balance of the sword was perfect; it felt like an

extension of his arm, unlike the rude farm tools he was used to. An air of power lay over

it, as if an unstoppable force resided in its core. It had been created for the violent

convulsions of battle, to end men’s lives, yet it held a terrible beauty.

“This was once a Rider’s blade,” said Brom gravely. “When a Rider finished his training,

the elves would present him with a sword. Their methods of forging have always

remained secret. However, their swords are eternally sharp and will never stain. The

custom was to have the blade’s color match that of the Rider’s dragon, but I think we can

make an exception in this case. This sword is named Zar’roc. I don’t know what it means,

probably something personal to the Rider who owned it.” He watched Eragon swing the

sword.

“Where did you get it?” asked Eragon. He reluctantly slipped the blade back into the

sheath and attempted to hand the sword back, but Brom made no move to take it.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Brom. “I will only say that it took me a series of nasty and

dangerous adventures to attain it. Consider it yours. You have more of a claim to it than I

do, and before all is done, I think you will need it.”

The offer caught Eragon off guard. “It is a princely gift, thank you.” Unsure of what else

to say, he slid his hand down the sheath. “What is this symbol?” he asked.

“That was the Rider’s personal crest.” Eragon tried to interrupt, but Brom glared at him

until he was quiet. “Now, if you must know, anyone can learn how to speak to a dragon if

they have the proper training. And,” he raised a finger for emphasis, “it doesn’t mean

anything if they can. I know more about the dragons and their abilities than almost

anyone else alive. On your own it might take years to learn what I can teach you. I’m

offering my knowledge as a shortcut. As for how I know so much, I will keep that to

myself.”

Saphira pulled herself up as he finished speaking and prowled over to Eragon. He pulled

out the blade and showed her the sword. It has power, she said, touching the point with her nose. The metal’s iridescent color rippled like water as it met her scales. She lifted

her head with a satisfied snort, and the sword resumed its normal appearance. Eragon

sheathed it, troubled.

Brom raised an eyebrow. “That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. Dragons will

constantly amaze you. Things . . . happen around them, mysterious things that are

impossible anywhere else. Even though the Riders worked with dragons for centuries,

they never completely understood their abilities. Some say that even the dragons don’t

know the full extent of their own powers. They are linked with this land in a way that lets

them overcome great obstacles. What Saphira just did illustrates my earlier point: there is

much you don’t know.”

There was a long pause. “That may be,” said Eragon, “but I can learn. And the strangers

are the most important thing I need to know about right now. Do you have any idea who

they are?”

Brom took a deep breath. “They are called the Ra’zac. No one knows if that’s the name

of their race or what they have chosen to call themselves. Either way, if they have

individual names, they keep them hidden. The Ra’zac were never seen before Galbatorix

came to power. He must have found them during his travels and enlisted them in his

service. Little or nothing is known about them. However, I can tell you this: they aren’t

human. When I glimpsed one’s head, it appeared to have something resembling a beak

and black eyes as large as my fist—though how they manage our speech is a mystery to

me. Doubtless the rest of their bodies are just as twisted. That is why they cover

themselves with cloaks at all times, regardless of the weather.

“As for their powers, they are stronger than any man and can jump incredible heights, but

they cannot use magic. Be thankful for that, because if they could, you would already be

in their grasp. I also know they have a strong aversion to sunlight, though it won’t stop

them if they’re determined. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating a Ra’zac, for they

are cunning and full of guile.”

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

know so much.

“As far as I know, only the two you saw. There might be more, but I’ve never heard of

them. Perhaps they’re the last of a dying race. You see, they are the king’s personal

dragon hunters. Whenever rumors reach Galbatorix of a dragon in the land, he sends the

Ra’zac to investigate. A trail of death often follows them.” Brom blew a series of smoke

rings and watched them float up between the brambles. Eragon ignored the rings until he

noticed that they were changing color and darting around. Brom winked slyly.

Eragon was sure that no one had seen Saphira, so how could Galbatorix have heard about

her? When he voiced his objections, Brom said, “You’re right, it seems unlikely that

anyone from Carvahall could have informed the king. Why don’t you tell me where you

got the egg and how you raised Saphira—that might clarify the issue.”

Eragon hesitated, then recounted all the events since he had found the egg in the Spine. It

felt wonderful to finally confide in someone. Brom asked a few questions, but most of the

time he listened intently. The sun was about to set when Eragon finished his tale. Both of

them were quiet as the clouds turned a soft pink. Eragon eventually broke the silence. “I

just wish I knew where she came from. And Saphira doesn’t remember.”

Brom cocked his head. “I don’t know. . . . You’ve made many things clear to me. I am

sure that no one besides us has seen Saphira. The Ra’zac must have had a source of

information outside of this valley, one who is probably dead by now. . . . You have had a

hard time and done much. I’m impressed.”

Eragon stared blankly into the distance, then asked, “What happened to your head? It

looks like you were hit with a rock.”

“No, but that’s a good guess.” He took a deep pull on the pipe. “I was sneaking around

the Ra’zac’s camp after dark, trying to learn what I could, when they surprised me in the

shadows. It was a good trap, but they underestimated me, and I managed to drive them

away. Not, however,” he said wryly, “without this token of my stupidity. Stunned, I fell

to the ground and didn’t regain consciousness until the next day. By then they had

already arrived at your farm. It was too late to stop them, but I set out after them anyway.

That’s when we met on the road.”

Who is he to think that he could take on the Ra’zac alone? They ambushed him in the

dark, and he was only stunned? Unsettled, Eragon asked hotly, “When you saw the mark,

the gedwëy ignasia, on my palm, why didn’t you tell me who the Ra’zac were? I would

have warned Garrow instead of going to Saphira first, and the three of us could have

fled.”

Brom sighed. “I was unsure of what to do at the time. I thought I could keep the Ra’zac

away from you and, once they had left, confront you about Saphira. But they outsmarted

me. It’s a mistake that I deeply regret, and one that has cost you dearly.”

“Who are you?” demanded Eragon, suddenly bitter. “How come a mere village storyteller

happens to have a Rider’s sword? How do you know about the Ra’zac?”

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

“My uncle is dead because of this. Dead! ” exclaimed Eragon, slashing a hand through the air. “I’ve trusted you this far because Saphira respects you, but no more! You’re not the

person I’ve known in Carvahall for all of these years. Explain yourself!”

For a long time Brom stared at the smoke swirling between them, deep lines creasing his

forehead. When he stirred, it was only to take another puff. Finally he said, “You’ve

probably never thought about it, but most of my life has been spent outside of Palancar

Valley. It was only in Carvahall that I took up the mantle of storyteller. I have played

many roles to different people—I’ve a complicated past. It was partly through a desire to

escape it that I came here. So no, I’m not the man you think I am.”

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

Brom smiled gently. “I am one who is here to help you. Do not scorn those words—they

are the truest I’ve ever spoken. But I’m not going to answer your questions. At this point

you don’t need to hear my history, nor have you yet earned that right. Yes, I have

knowledge Brom the storyteller wouldn’t, but I’m more than he. You’ll have to learn to

live with that fact and the fact that I don’t hand out descriptions of my life to anyone who

asks!”

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

Brom did not seem surprised, but there was sorrow in his eyes. He spread his bedroll next

to the fire as Eragon lay beside Saphira. An icy silence fell over the camp.

SADDLEMAKING

When Eragon’s eyes opened, the memory of Garrow’s death crashed down on him. He

pulled the blankets over his head and cried quietly under their warm darkness. It felt good

just to lie there . . . to hide from the world outside. Eventually the tears stopped. He

cursed Brom. Then he reluctantly wiped his cheeks and got up.

Brom was making breakfast. “Good morning,” he said. Eragon grunted in reply. He

jammed his cold fingers in his armpits and crouched by the fire until the food was ready.

They ate quickly, trying to consume the food before it lost its warmth. When he finished,

Eragon washed his bowl with snow, then spread the stolen leather on the ground.

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

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

“Mmm,” said Brom, moving forward. “Well, dragons used to have two kinds of saddles.

The first was hard and molded like a horse’s saddle. But those take time and tools to

make, neither of which we have. The other was thin and lightly padded, nothing more

than an extra layer between the Rider and dragon. Those saddles were used whenever

speed and flexibility were important, though they weren’t nearly as comfortable as the

molded ones.”

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

“Better, I can make one.”

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

“Very well, but pay attention. Someday you may have to do this for yourself.” With

Saphira’s permission, Brom measured her neck and chest. Then he cut five bands out of

the leather and outlined a dozen or so shapes on the hides. Once the pieces had been

sliced out, he cut what remained of the hides into long cords.

Brom used the cords to sew everything together, but for each stitch, two holes had to be

bored through the leather. Eragon helped with that. Intricate knots were rigged in place of

buckles, and every strap was made extra long so the saddle would still fit Saphira in the

coming months.

The main part of the saddle was assembled from three identical sections sewn together

with padding between them. Attached to the front was a thick loop that would fit snugly

around one of Saphira’s neck spikes, while wide bands sewn on either side would wrap

around her belly and tie underneath. Taking the place of stirrups were a series of loops

running down both bands. Tightened, they would hold Eragon’s legs in place. A long

strap was constructed to pass between Saphira’s front legs, split in two, and then come up

behind her front legs to rejoin with the saddle.

While Brom worked, Eragon repaired his pack and organized their supplies. The day was

spent by the time their tasks were completed. Weary from his labor, Brom put the saddle

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

took it off, satisfied.

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

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

enough.”

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

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

Dinner was made quickly. It tasted good even though it was simple. While they ate, Brom

looked over the fire at Eragon and asked, “Will we leave tomorrow?”

“There isn’t any reason to stay.”

“I suppose not. . . .” He shifted. “Eragon, I must apologize about how events have turned

out. I never wished for this to happen. Your family did not deserve such a tragedy. If

there were anything I could do to reverse it, I would. This is a terrible situation for all of

us.” Eragon sat in silence, avoiding Brom’s gaze, then Brom said, “We’re going to need

horses.”

“Maybe you do, but I have Saphira.”

Brom shook his head. “There isn’t a horse alive that can outrun a flying dragon, and

Saphira is too young to carry us both. Besides, it’ll be safer if we stay together, and riding

is faster than walking.”

“But that’ll make it harder to catch the Ra’zac,” protested Eragon. “On Saphira, I could

probably find them within a day or two. On horses, it’ll take much longer—if it’s even

possible to overtake their lead on the ground!”

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

Eragon thought it over. “All right,” he grumbled, “we’ll get horses. But you have to buy

them. I don’t have any money, and I don’t want to steal again. It’s wrong.”

“That depends on your point of view,” corrected Brom with a slight smile. “Before you

set out on this venture, remember that your enemies, the Ra’zac, are the king’s servants.

They will be protected wherever they go. Laws do not stop them. In cities they’ll have

access to abundant resources and willing servants. Also keep in mind that nothing is more

important to Galbatorix than recruiting or killing you—though word of your existence

probably hasn’t reached him yet. The longer you evade the Ra’zac, the more desperate

he’ll become. He’ll know that every day you’ll be growing stronger and that each passing

moment will give you another chance to join his enemies. You must be very careful, as

you may easily turn from the hunter into the hunted.”

Eragon was subdued by the strong words. Pensive, he rolled a twig between his fingers.

“Enough talk,” said Brom. “It’s late and my bones ache. We can say more tomorrow.”

Eragon nodded and banked the fire.

THERINSFORD

Dawn was gray and overcast with a cutting wind. The forest was quiet. After a light

breakfast, Brom and Eragon doused the fire and shouldered their packs, preparing to

leave. Eragon hung his bow and quiver on the side of his pack where he could easily

reach them. Saphira wore the saddle; she would have to carry it until they got horses.

Eragon carefully tied Zar’roc onto her back, too, as he did not want the extra weight.

Besides, in his hands the sword would be no better than a club.

Eragon had felt safe inside the bramble, but outside, wariness crept into his movements.

Saphira took off and circled overhead. The trees thinned as they returned to the farm.

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

As they walked, Saphira veered west toward the mountains and out of sight. Eragon felt

uncomfortable as he watched her go. Even now, with no one around, they could not

spend their days together. She had to stay hidden in case they met a fellow traveler.

The Ra’zac’s footprints were faint on the eroding snow, but Eragon was unconcerned. It

was unlikely that they had forsaken the road, which was the easiest way out of the valley,

for the wilderness. Once outside the valley, however, the road divided in several places. It

would be difficult to ascertain which branch the Ra’zac had taken.

They traveled in silence, concentrating on speed. Eragon’s legs continued to bleed where

the scabs had cracked. To take his mind off the discomfort, he asked, “So what exactly

can dragons do? You said that you knew something of their abilities.”

Brom laughed, his sapphire ring flashing in the air as he gestured. “Unfortunately, it’s a

pitiful amount compared to what I would like to know. Your question is one people have

been trying to answer for centuries, so understand that what I tell you is by its very nature

incomplete. Dragons have always been mysterious, though maybe not on purpose.

“Before I can truly answer your question, you need a basic education on the subject of

dragons. It’s hopelessly confusing to start in the middle of such a complex topic without

understanding the foundation on which it stands. I’ll begin with the life cycle of dragons,

and if that doesn’t wear you out, we can continue to another topic.”

Brom explained how dragons mate and what it took for their eggs to hatch. “You see,” he

said, “when a dragon lays an egg, the infant inside is ready to hatch. But it waits,

sometimes for years, for the right circumstances. When dragons lived in the wild, those

circumstances were usually dictated by the availability of food. However, once they

formed an alliance with the elves, a certain number of their eggs, usually no more than

one or two, were given to the Riders each year. These eggs, or rather the infants inside,

wouldn’t hatch until the person destined to be its Rider came into their presence—though

how they sensed that isn’t known. People used to line up to touch the eggs, hoping that

one of them might be picked.”

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

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

He felt honored that of all the people in Alagaësia, she had chosen him. He wondered

how long she had been waiting, then shuddered at the thought of being cramped inside an

egg, surrounded by darkness.

Brom continued his lecture. He explained what and when dragons ate. A fully grown

sedentary dragon could go for months without food, but in mating season they had to eat

every week. Some plants could heal their sicknesses, while others would make them ill.

There were various ways to care for their claws and clean their scales.

He explained the techniques to use when attacking from a dragon and what to do if you

were fighting one, whether on foot, horseback, or with another dragon. Their bellies were

armored; their armpits were not. Eragon constantly interrupted to ask questions, and

Brom seemed pleased by the inquiries. Hours passed unheeded as they talked.

When evening came, they were near Therinsford. As the sky darkened and they searched

for a place to camp, Eragon asked, “Who was the Rider that owned Zar’roc?”

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

power.”

“What was his name?”

“I’ll not say.” Eragon protested, but Brom was firm. “I don’t want to keep you ignorant,

far from it, but certain knowledge would only prove dangerous and distracting for you

right now. There isn’t any reason for me to trouble you with such things until you have

the time and the power to deal with them. I only wish to protect you from those who

would use you for evil.”

Eragon glared at him. “You know what? I think you just enjoy speaking in riddles. I’ve

half a mind to leave you so I don’t have to be bothered with them. If you’re going to say

something, then say it instead of dancing around with vague phrases!”

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

They found a comfortable place to spend the night and set up camp. Saphira joined them

as dinner was being set on the fire. Did you have time to hunt for food? asked Eragon.

She snorted with amusement. If the two of you were any slower, I would have time to fly

across the sea and back without falling behind.

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

She let out a puff of smoke. Maybe, but will it be enough to catch the Ra’zac? They have

a lead of several days and many leagues. And I’m afraid they may suspect we’re

following them. Why else would they have destroyed the farm in such a spectacular

manner, unless they wished to provoke you into chasing them?

I don’t know, said Eragon, disturbed. Saphira curled up beside him, and he leaned against her belly, welcoming the warmth. Brom sat on the other side of the fire, whittling two

long sticks. He suddenly threw one at Eragon, who grabbed it out of reflex as it whirled

over the crackling flames.

“Defend yourself!” barked Brom, standing.

Eragon looked at the stick in his hand and saw that it was shaped in the crude likeness of

a sword. Brom wanted to fight him? What chance did the old man stand? If he wants to

play this game, so be it, but if he thinks to beat me, he’s in for a surprise.

He rose as Brom circled the fire. They faced each other for a moment, then Brom

charged, swinging his stick. Eragon tried to block the attack but was too slow. He yelped

as Brom struck him on the ribs, and stumbled backward.

Without thinking, he lunged forward, but Brom easily parried the blow. Eragon whipped

the stick toward Brom’s head, twisted it at the last moment, and then tried to hit his side.

The solid smack of wood striking wood resounded through the camp. “Improvisation—

good!” exclaimed Brom, eyes gleaming. His arm moved in a blur, and there was an

explosion of pain on the side of Eragon’s head. He collapsed like an empty sack, dazed.

A splash of cold water roused him to alertness, and he sat up, sputtering. His head was

ringing, and there was dried blood on his face. Brom stood over him with a pan of melted

snow water. “You didn’t have to do that,” said Eragon angrily, pushing himself up. He

felt dizzy and unsteady.

Brom arched an eyebrow. “Oh? A real enemy wouldn’t soften his blows, and neither will

I. Should I pander to your . . . incompetence so you’ll feel better? I don’t think so.” He

picked up the stick that Eragon had dropped and held it out. “Now, defend yourself.”

Eragon stared blankly at the piece of wood, then shook his head. “Forget it; I’ve had

enough.” He turned away and stumbled as he was whacked loudly across the back. He

spun around, growling.

“Never turn your back to the enemy!” snapped Brom, then tossed the stick at him and

attacked. Eragon retreated around the fire, beneath the onslaught. “Pull your arms in.

Keep your knees bent,” shouted Brom. He continued to give instructions, then paused to

show Eragon exactly how to execute a certain move. “Do it again, but this time slowly !”

They slid through the forms with exaggerated motions before returning to their furious

battle. Eragon learned quickly, but no matter what he tried, he could not hold Brom off

for more than a few blows.

When they finished, Eragon flopped on his blankets and groaned. He hurt everywhere—

Brom had not been gentle with his stick. Saphira let out a long, coughing growl and

curled her lip until a formidable row of teeth showed.

What’s wrong with you? he demanded irritably.

Nothing, she replied. It’s funny to see a hatchling like you beaten by the old one. She made the sound again, and Eragon turned red as he realized that she was laughing. Trying to

preserve some dignity, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep.

He felt even worse the next day. Bruises covered his arms, and he was almost too sore to

move. Brom looked up from the mush he was serving and grinned. “How do you feel?”

Eragon grunted and bolted down the breakfast.

Once on the road, they traveled swiftly so as to reach Therinsford before noon. After a

league, the road widened and they saw smoke in the distance. “You’d better tell Saphira

to fly ahead and wait for us on the other side of Therinsford,” said Brom. “She has to be

careful here, otherwise people are bound to notice her.”

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?” challenged Eragon.

“It’s considered bad manners to interfere with another’s dragon.”

“You didn’t have a problem with it in Carvahall.”

Brom’s lips twitched with a smile. “I did what I had to.”

Eragon eyed him darkly, then relayed the instructions. Saphira warned, Be careful; the

Empire’s servants could be hiding anywhere.

As the ruts in the road deepened, Eragon noticed more footprints. Farms signaled their

approach to Therinsford. The village was larger than Carvahall, but it had been

constructed haphazardly, the houses aligned in no particular order.

“What a mess,” said Eragon. He could not see Dempton’s mill. Baldor and Albriech have

surely fetched Roran by now. Either way, Eragon had no wish to face his cousin.

“It’s ugly, if nothing else,” agreed Brom.

The Anora River flowed between them and the town, spanned by a stout bridge. As they

approached it, a greasy man stepped from behind a bush and barred their way. His shirt

was too short, and his dirty stomach spilled over a rope belt. Behind his cracked lips, his

teeth looked like crumbling tombstones. “You c’n stop right there. This’s my bridge.

Gotta pay t’ get over.”

“How much?” asked Brom in a resigned voice. He pulled out a pouch, and the

bridgekeeper brightened.

“Five crowns,” he said, pulling his lips into a broad smile. Eragon’s temper flared at the

exorbitant price, and he started to complain hotly, but Brom silenced him with a quick

look. The coins were wordlessly handed over. The man put them into a sack hanging

from his belt. “Thank’ee much,” he said in a mocking tone, and stood out of the way.

As Brom stepped forward, he stumbled and caught the bridgekeeper’s arm to support

himself. “Watch y’re step,” snarled the grimy man, sidling away.

“Sorry,” apologized Brom, and continued over the bridge with Eragon.

“Why didn’t you haggle? He skinned you alive!” exclaimed Eragon when they were out

of earshot. “He probably doesn’t even own the bridge. We could have pushed right past

him.”

“Probably,” agreed Brom.

“Then why pay him?”

“Because you can’t argue with all of the fools in the world. It’s easier to let them have

their way, then trick them when they’re not paying attention.” Brom opened his hand, and

a pile of coins glinted in the light.

“You cut his purse!” said Eragon incredulously.

Brom pocketed the money with a wink. “And it held a surprising amount. He should

know better than to keep all these coins in one place.” There was a sudden howl of

anguish from the other side of the river. “I’d say our friend has just discovered his loss. If

you see any watchmen, tell me.” He grabbed the shoulder of a young boy running

between the houses and asked, “Do you know where we can buy horses?” The child

stared at them with solemn eyes, then pointed to a large barn near the edge of

Therinsford. “Thank you,” said Brom, tossing him a small coin.

The barn’s large double doors were open, revealing two long rows of stalls. The far wall

was covered with saddles, harnesses, and other paraphernalia. A man with muscular arms

stood at the end, brushing a white stallion. He raised a hand and beckoned for them to

come over.

As they approached, Brom said, “That’s a beautiful animal.”

“Yes indeed. His name’s Snowfire. Mine’s Haberth.” Haberth offered a rough palm and

shook hands vigorously with Eragon and Brom. There was a polite pause as he waited for

their names in return. When they were not forthcoming, he asked, “Can I help you?”

Brom nodded. “We need two horses and a full set of tack for both. The horses have to be

fast and tough; we’ll be doing a lot of traveling.”

Haberth was thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t have many animals like that, and the ones

I do aren’t cheap.” The stallion moved restlessly; he calmed it with a few strokes of his

fingers.

“Price is no object. I’ll take the best you have,” said Brom. Haberth nodded and silently

tied the stallion to a stall. He went to the wall and started pulling down saddles and other

items. Soon he had two identical piles. Next he walked up the line of stalls and brought

out two horses. One was a light bay, the other a roan. The bay tugged against his rope.

“He’s a little spirited, but with a firm hand you won’t have any problems,” said Haberth,

handing the bay’s rope to Brom.

Brom let the horse smell his hand; it allowed him to rub its neck. “We’ll take him,” he

said, then eyed the roan. “The other one, however, I’m not so sure of.”

“There are some good legs on him.”

“Mmm . . . What will you take for Snowfire?”

Haberth looked fondly at the stallion. “I’d rather not sell him. He’s the finest I’ve ever

bred—I’m hoping to sire a whole line from him.”

“If you were willing to part with him, how much would all of this cost me?” asked Brom.

Eragon tried to put his hand on the bay like Brom had, but it shied away. He

automatically reached out with his mind to reassure the horse, stiffening with surprise as

he touched the animal’s consciousness. The contact was not clear or sharp like it was

with Saphira, but he could communicate with the bay to a limited degree. Tentatively, he

made it understand that he was a friend. The horse calmed and looked at him with liquid

brown eyes.

Haberth used his fingers to add up the price of the purchase. “Two hundred crowns and

no less,” he said with a smile, clearly confident that no one would pay that much. Brom

silently opened his pouch and counted out the money.

“Will this do?” he asked.

There was a long silence as Haberth glanced between Snowfire and the coins. A sigh,

then, “He is yours, though I go against my heart.”

“I will treat him as if he had been sired by Gildintor, the greatest steed of legend,” said

Brom.

“Your words gladden me,” answered Haberth, bowing his head slightly. He helped them

saddle the horses. When they were ready to leave, he said, “Farewell, then. For the sake

of Snowfire, I hope that misfortune does not befall you.”

“Do not fear; I will guard him well,” promised Brom as they departed. “Here,” he said,

handing Snowfire’s reins to Eragon, “go to the far side of Therinsford and wait there.”

“Why?” asked Eragon, but Brom had already slipped away. Annoyed, he exited

Therinsford with the two horses and stationed himself beside the road. To the south he

saw the hazy outline of Utgard, sitting like a giant monolith at the end of the valley. Its

peak pierced the clouds and rose out of sight, towering over the lesser mountains that

surrounded it. Its dark, ominous look made Eragon’s scalp tingle.

Brom returned shortly and gestured for Eragon to follow. They walked until Therinsford

was hidden by trees. Then Brom said, “The Ra’zac definitely passed this way. Apparently

they stopped here to pick up horses, as we did. I was able to find a man who saw them.

He described them with many shudders and said that they galloped out of Therinsford

like demons fleeing a holy man.”

“They left quite an impression.”

“Quite.”

Eragon patted the horses. “When we were in the barn, I touched the bay’s mind by

accident. I didn’t know it was possible to do that.”

Brom frowned. “It’s unusual for one as young as you to have the ability. Most Riders had

to train for years before they were strong enough to contact anything other than their

dragon.” His face was thoughtful as he inspected Snowfire. Then he said, “Take

everything from your pack, put it into the saddlebags, and tie the pack on top.” Eragon

did so while Brom mounted Snowfire.

Eragon gazed doubtfully at the bay. It was so much smaller than Saphira that for an

absurd moment he wondered if it could bear his weight. With a sigh, he awkwardly got

into the saddle. He had only ridden horses bareback and never for any distance. “Is this

going to do the same thing to my legs as riding Saphira?” he asked.

“How do they feel now?”

“Not too bad, but I think any hard riding will open them up again.”

“We’ll take it easy,” promised Brom. He gave Eragon a few pointers, then they started

off at a gentle pace. Before long the countryside began to change as cultivated fields

yielded to wilder land. Brambles and tangled weeds lined the road, along with huge

rosebushes that clung to their clothes. Tall rocks slanted out of the ground—gray

witnesses to their presence. There was an unfriendly feel in the air, an animosity that

resisted intruders.

Above them, growing larger with every step, loomed Utgard, its craggy precipices deeply

furrowed with snowy canyons. The black rock of the mountain absorbed light like a

sponge and dimmed the surrounding area. Between Utgard and the line of mountains that

formed the east side of Palancar Valley was a deep cleft. It was the only practical way out

of the valley. The road led toward it.

The horses’ hooves clacked sharply over gravel, and the road dwindled to a skinny trail

as it skirted the base of Utgard. Eragon glanced up at the peak looming over them and

was startled to see a steepled tower perched upon it. The turret was crumbling and in

disrepair, but it was still a stern sentinel over the valley. “What is that?” he asked,

pointing.

Brom did not look up, but said sadly and with bitterness, “An outpost of the Riders—one

that has lasted since their founding. That was where Vrael took refuge, and where,

through treachery, he was found and defeated by Galbatorix. When Vrael fell, this area

was tainted. Edoc’sil, ‘Unconquerable,’ was the name of this bastion, for the mountain is

so steep none may reach the top unless they can fly. After Vrael’s death the commoners

called it Utgard, but it has another name, Ristvak’baen—the ‘Place of Sorrow.’ It was

known as such to the last Riders before they were killed by the king.”

Eragon stared with awe. Here was a tangible remnant of the Riders’ glory, tarnished

though it was by the relentless pull of time. It struck him then just how old the Riders

were. A legacy of tradition and heroism that stretched back to antiquity had fallen upon

him.

They traveled for long hours around Utgard. It formed a solid wall to their right as they

entered the breach that divided the mountain range. Eragon stood in his stirrups; he was

impatient to see what lay outside of Palancar, but it was still too far away. For a while

they were in a sloped pass, winding over hill and gully, following the Anora River. Then,

with the sun low behind their backs, they mounted a rise and saw over the trees.

Eragon gasped. On either side were mountains, but below them stretched a huge plain

that extended to the distant horizon and fused into the sky. The plain was a uniform tan,

like the color of dead grass. Long, wispy clouds swept by overhead, shaped by fierce

winds.

He understood now why Brom had insisted on horses. It would have taken them weeks or

months to cover that vast distance on foot. Far above he saw Saphira circling, high

enough to be mistaken for a bird.

“We’ll wait until tomorrow to make the descent,” said Brom. “It’s going to take most of

the day, so we should camp now.”

“How far across is the plain?” Eragon asked, still amazed.

“Two or three days to over a fortnight, depending on which direction we go. Aside from

the nomad tribes that roam this section of the plains, it’s almost as uninhabited as the

Hadarac Desert to the east. So we aren’t going to find many villages. However, to the

south the plains are less arid and more heavily populated.”

They left the trail and dismounted by the Anora River. As they unsaddled the horses,

Brom gestured at the bay. “You should name him.”

Eragon considered it as he picketed the bay. “Well, I don’t have anything as noble as

Snowfire, but maybe this will do.” He placed his hand on the bay and said, “I name you

Cadoc. It was my grandfather’s name, so bear it well.” Brom nodded in approval, but

Eragon felt slightly foolish.

When Saphira landed, he asked , How do the plains look?

Dull. There’s nothing but rabbits and scrub in every direction.

After dinner, Brom stood and barked, “Catch!” Eragon barely had time to raise his arm

and grab the piece of wood before it hit him on the head. He groaned as he saw another

makeshift sword.

“Not again,” he complained. Brom just smiled and beckoned with one hand. Eragon

reluctantly got to his feet. They whirled around in a flurry of smacking wood, and he

backed away with a stinging arm.

The training session was shorter than the first, but it was still long enough for Eragon to

amass a new collection of bruises. When they finished sparring, he threw down the stick

in disgust and stalked away from the fire to nurse his injuries.

THUNDERROAR ANDLIGHTNINGCRACKLE

The next morning Eragon avoided bringing to mind any of the recent events; they were

too painful for him to consider. Instead, he focused his energies on figuring out how to

find and kill the Ra’zac. I’ll do it with my bow, he decided, imagining how the cloaked figures would look with arrows sticking out of them.

He had difficulty even standing up. His muscles cramped with the slightest movement,

and one of his fingers was hot and swollen. When they were ready to leave, he mounted

Cadoc and said acidly, “If this keeps up, you’re going to batter me to pieces.”

“I wouldn’t push you so hard if I didn’t think you were strong enough.”

“For once, I wouldn’t mind being thought less of,” muttered Eragon.

Cadoc pranced nervously as Saphira approached. Saphira eyed the horse with something

close to disgust and said, There’s nowhere to hide on the plains, so I’m not going to

bother trying to stay out of sight. I’ll just fly above you from now on.

She took off, and they began the steep descent. In many places the trail all but

disappeared, leaving them to find their own way down. At times they had to dismount

and lead the horses on foot, holding on to trees to keep from falling down the slope. The

ground was scattered with loose rocks, which made the footing treacherous. The ordeal

left them hot and irritable, despite the cold.

They stopped to rest when they reached the bottom near midday. The Anora River veered

to their left and flowed northward. A biting wind scoured the land, whipping them

unmercifully. The soil was parched, and dirt flew into their eyes.

It unnerved Eragon how flat everything was; the plains were unbroken by hummocks or

mounds. He had lived his entire life surrounded by mountains and hills. Without them he

felt exposed and vulnerable, like a mouse under an eagle’s keen eye.

The trail split in three once it reached the plains. The first branch turned north, toward

Ceunon, one of the greatest northern cities; the second one led straight across the plains;

and the last went south. They examined all three for traces of the Ra’zac and eventually

found their tracks, heading directly into the grasslands.

“It seems they’ve gone to Yazuac,” said Brom with a perplexed air.

“Where’s that?”

“Due east and four days away, if all goes well. It’s a small village situated by the Ninor

River.” He gestured at the Anora, which streamed away from them to the north. “Our

only supply of water is here. We’ll have to replenish our waterskins before attempting to

cross the plains. There isn’t another pool or stream between here and Yazuac.”

The excitement of the hunt began to rise within Eragon. In a few days, maybe less than a

week, he would use his arrows to avenge Garrow’s death. And then . . . He refused to

think about what might happen afterward.

They filled the waterskins, watered the horses, and drank as much as they could from the

river. Saphira joined them and took several gulps of water. Fortified, they turned

eastward and started across the plains.

Eragon decided that it would be the wind that drove him crazy first. Everything that made

him miserable—his chapped lips, parched tongue, and burning eyes—stemmed from it.

The ceaseless gusting followed them throughout the day. Evening only strengthened the

wind, instead of subduing it.

Since there was no shelter, they were forced to camp in the open. Eragon found some

scrub brush, a short tough plant that thrived on harsh conditions, and pulled it up. He

made a careful pile and tried to light it, but the woody stems only smoked and gave off a

pungent smell. Frustrated, he tossed the tinderbox to Brom. “I can’t make it burn,

especially with this blasted wind. See if you can get it going: otherwise dinner will be

cold.”

Brom knelt by the brush and looked at it critically. He rearranged a couple of branches,

then struck the tinderbox, sending a cascade of sparks onto the plants. There was smoke,

but nothing else. Brom scowled and tried again, but his luck was no better than Eragon’s.

“Brisingr!” he swore angrily, striking the flint again. Flames suddenly appeared, and he

stepped back with a pleased expression. “There we go. It must have been smoldering

inside.”

They sparred with mock swords while the food cooked. Fatigue made it hard on both of

them, so they kept the session short. After they had eaten, they lay next to Saphira and

slept, grateful for her shelter.

The same cold wind greeted them in the morning, sweeping over the dreadful flatness.

Eragon’s lips had cracked during the night; every time he smiled or talked, beads of

blood covered them. Licking them only made it worse. It was the same for Brom. They

let the horses drink sparingly from their supply of water before mounting them. The day

was a monotonous trek of endless plodding.

On the third day, Eragon woke well rested. That, coupled with the fact that the wind had

stopped, put him in a cheery humor. His high spirits were dampened, however, when he

saw the sky ahead of them was dark with thunderheads.

Brom looked at the clouds and grimaced. “Normally I wouldn’t go into a storm like that,

but we’re in for a battering no matter what we do, so we might as well get some distance

covered.”

It was still calm when they reached the storm front. As they entered its shadow, Eragon

looked up. The thundercloud had an exotic structure, forming a natural cathedral with a

massive arched roof. With some imagination he could see pillars, windows, soaring tiers,

and snarling gargoyles. It was a wild beauty.

As Eragon lowered his gaze, a giant ripple raced toward them through the grass,

flattening it. It took him a second to realize that the wave was a tremendous blast of wind.

Brom saw it too, and they hunched their shoulders, preparing for the storm.

The gale was almost upon them when Eragon had a horrible thought and twisted in his

saddle, yelling, both with his voice and mind, “Saphira! Land!” Brom’s face grew pale.

Overhead, they saw her dive toward the ground. She’s not going to make it!

Saphira angled back the way they had come, to gain time. As they watched, the tempest’s

wrath struck them like a hammer blow. Eragon gasped for breath and clenched the saddle

as a frenzied howling filled his ears. Cadoc swayed and dug his hooves into the ground,

mane snapping in the air. The wind tore at their clothes with invisible fingers while the

air darkened with billowing clouds of dust.

Eragon squinted, searching for Saphira. He saw her land heavily and then crouch,

clenching the ground with her talons. The wind reached her just as she started to fold her

wings. With an angry yank, it unfurled them and dragged her into the air. For a moment

she hung there, suspended by the storm’s force. Then it slammed her down on her back.

With a savage wrench, Eragon yanked Cadoc around and galloped back up the trail,

goading the horse with both heels and mind. Saphira! he shouted. Try to stay on the ground. I’m coming! He felt a grim acknowledgment from her. As they neared Saphira,

Cadoc balked, so Eragon leapt down and ran toward her.

His bow banged against his head. A strong gust pushed him off balance and he flew

forward, landing on his chest. He skidded, then got back up with a snarl, ignoring the

deep scrapes in his skin.

Saphira was only three yards away, but he could get no closer because of her flailing

wings. She struggled to fold them against the overpowering gale. He rushed at her right

wing, intending to hold it down, but the wind caught her and she somersaulted over him.

The spines on her back missed his head by inches. Saphira clawed at the ground, trying to

stay down.

Her wings began to lift again, but before they could flip her, Eragon threw himself at the

left one. The wing crumpled in at the joints and Saphira tucked it firmly against her body.

Eragon vaulted over her back and tumbled onto the other wing. Without warning it was

blown upward, sending him sliding to ground. He broke his fall with a roll, then jumped

up and grabbed the wing again. Saphira started to fold it, and he pushed with all of his

strength. The wind battled with them for a second, but with one last surge they overcame

it.

Eragon leaned against Saphira, panting. Are you all right? He could feel her trembling.

She took a moment to answer. I . . . I think so. She sounded shaken. Nothing’s broken—I couldn’t do anything; the wind wouldn’t let me go. I was helpless. With a shudder, she fell silent.

He looked at her, concerned. Don’t worry, you’re safe now. He spotted Cadoc a ways off, standing with his back to the wind. With his mind, Eragon instructed the horse to return

to Brom. He then got onto Saphira. She crept up the road, fighting the gale while he clung

to her back and kept his head down.

When they reached Brom, he shouted over the storm, “Is she hurt?”

Eragon shook his head and dismounted. Cadoc trotted over to him, nickering. As he

stroked the horse’s long cheek, Brom pointed at a dark curtain of rain sweeping toward

them in rippling gray sheets. “What else?” cried Eragon, pulling his clothes tighter. He

winced as the torrent reached them. The stinging rain was cold as ice; before long they

were drenched and shivering.

Lightning lanced through the sky, flickering in and out of existence. Mile-high blue bolts

streaked across the horizon, followed by peals of thunder that shook the ground below. It

was beautiful, but dangerously so. Here and there, grass fires were ignited by strikes, only

to be extinguished by the rain.

The wild elements were slow to abate, but as the day passed, they wandered elsewhere.

Once again the sky was revealed, and the setting sun glowed with brilliance. As beams of

light tinted the clouds with blazing colors, everything gained a sharp contrast: brightly lit

on one side, deeply shadowed on the other. Objects had a unique sense of mass; grass

stalks seemed sturdy as marble pillars. Ordinary things took on an unearthly beauty;

Eragon felt as if he were sitting inside a painting.

The rejuvenated earth smelled fresh, clearing their minds and raising their spirits. Saphira

stretched, craning her neck, and roared happily. The horses skittered away from her, but

Eragon and Brom smiled at her exuberance.

Before the light faded, they stopped for the night in a shallow depression. Too exhausted

to spar, they went straight to sleep.

REVELATION ATYAZUAC

Although they had managed to partially refill the waterskins during the storm, they

drank the last of their water that morning. “I hope we’re going in the right direction,” said

Eragon, crunching up the empty water bag, “because we’ll be in trouble if we don’t reach

Yazuac today.”

Brom did not seem disturbed. “I’ve traveled this way before. Yazuac will be in sight

before dusk.”

Eragon laughed doubtfully. “Perhaps you see something I don’t. How can you know that

when everything looks exactly the same for leagues around?”

“Because I am guided not by the land, but by the stars and sun. They will not lead us

astray. Come! Let us be off. It is foolish to conjure up woe where none exists. Yazuac

will be there.”

His words proved true. Saphira spotted the village first, but it was not until later in the

day that the rest of them saw it as a dark bump on the horizon. Yazuac was still very far

away; it was only visible because of the plain’s uniform flatness. As they rode closer, a

dark winding line appeared on either side of the town and disappeared in the distance.

“The Ninor River,” said Brom, pointing at it.

Eragon pulled Cadoc to a stop. “Saphira will be seen if she stays with us much longer.

Should she hide while we go into Yazuac?”

Brom scratched his chin and looked at the town. “See that bend in the river? Have her

wait there. It’s far enough from Yazuac so no one should find her, but close enough that

she won’t be left behind. We’ll go through the town, get what we need, and then meet

her.”

I don’t like it, said Saphira when Eragon had explained the plan. This is irritating, having to hide all the time like a criminal.

You know what would happen if we were revealed. She grumbled but gave in and flew

away low to the ground.

They kept a swift pace in anticipation of the food and drink they would soon enjoy. As

they approached the small houses, they could see smoke from a dozen chimneys, but

there was no one in the streets. An abnormal silence enveloped the village. By unspoken

consent they stopped before the first house. Eragon abruptly said, “There aren’t any dogs

barking.”

“No.”

“Doesn’t mean anything, though.”

“. . . No.”

Eragon paused. “Someone should have seen us by now.”

“Yes.”

“Then why hasn’t anyone come out?”

Brom squinted at the sun. “Could be afraid.”

“Could be,” said Eragon. He was quiet for a moment. “And if it’s a trap? The Ra’zac

might be waiting for us.”

“We need provisions and water.”

“There’s the Ninor.”

“Still need provisions.”

“True.” Eragon looked around. “So we go in?”

Brom flicked his reins. “Yes, but not like fools. This is the main entrance to Yazuac. If

there’s an ambush, it’ll be along here. No one will expect us to arrive from a different

direction.”

“Around to the side, then?” asked Eragon. Brom nodded and pulled out his sword, resting

the bare blade across his saddle. Eragon strung his bow and nocked an arrow.

They trotted quietly around the town and entered it cautiously. The streets were empty,

except for a small fox that darted away as they came near. The houses were dark and

foreboding, with shattered windows. Many of the doors swung on broken hinges. The

horses rolled their eyes nervously. Eragon’s palm tingled, but he resisted the urge to

scratch it. As they rode into the center of town, he gripped his bow tighter, blanching.

“Gods above,” he whispered.

A mountain of bodies rose above them, the corpses stiff and grimacing. Their clothes

were soaked in blood, and the churned ground was stained with it. Slaughtered men lay

over the women they had tried to protect, mothers still clasped their children, and lovers

who had tried to shield each other rested in death’s cold embrace. Black arrows stuck out

of them all. Neither young nor old had been spared. But worst of all was the barbed spear

that rose out of the peak of the pile, impaling the white body of a baby.

Tears blurred Eragon’s vision and he tried to look away, but the dead faces held his

attention. He stared at their open eyes and wondered how life could have left them so

easily. What does our existence mean when it can end like this? A wave of hopelessness overwhelmed him.

A crow dipped out of the sky, like a black shadow, and perched on the spear. It cocked its

head and greedily scrutinized the infant’s corpse. “Oh no you don’t,” snarled Eragon as

he pulled back the bowstring and released it with a twang. With a puff of feathers, the

crow fell over backward, the arrow protruding from its chest. Eragon fit another arrow to

the string, but nausea rose from his stomach and he threw up over Cadoc’s side.

Brom patted him on the back. When Eragon was done, Brom asked gently, “Do you want

to wait for me outside Yazuac?”

“No . . . I’ll stay,” said Eragon shakily, wiping his mouth. He avoided looking at the

gruesome sight before them. “Who could have done . . .” He could not force out the

words.

Brom bowed his head. “Those who love the pain and suffering of others. They wear

many faces and go by many disguises, but there is only one name for them: evil. There is

no understanding it. All we can do is pity and honor the victims.”

He dismounted Snowfire and walked around, inspecting the trampled ground carefully.

“The Ra’zac passed this way,” he said slowly, “but this wasn’t their doing. This is Urgal

work; the spear is of their make. A company of them came through here, perhaps as many

as a hundred. It’s odd; I know of only a few instances when they have gathered in such . .

.” He knelt and examined a footprint intently. With a curse he ran back to Snowfire and

leapt onto him.

“Ride!” he hissed tightly, spurring Snowfire forward. “There are still Urgals here!”

Eragon jammed his heels into Cadoc. The horse jumped forward and raced after

Snowfire. They dashed past the houses and were almost to the edge of Yazuac when

Eragon’s palm tingled again. He saw a flicker of movement to his right, then a giant fist

smashed him out of the saddle. He flew back over Cadoc and crashed into a wall, holding

on to his bow only by instinct. Gasping and stunned, he staggered upright, hugging his

side.

An Urgal stood over him, face set in a gross leer. The monster was tall, thick, and broader

than a doorway, with gray skin and yellow piggish eyes. Muscles bulged on his arms and

chest, which was covered by a too small breastplate. An iron cap rested over the pair of

ram’s horns curling from his temples, and a roundshield was bound to one arm. His

powerful hand held a short, wicked sword.

Behind him, Eragon saw Brom rein in Snowfire and start back, only to be stopped by the

appearance of a second Urgal, this one with an ax. “Run, you fool!” Brom cried to

Eragon, cleaving at his enemy. The Urgal in front of Eragon roared and swung his sword

mightily. Eragon jerked back with a startled yelp as the weapon whistled past his cheek.

He spun around and fled toward the center of Yazuac, heart pounding wildly.

The Urgal pursued him, heavy boots thudding. Eragon sent a desperate cry for help to

Saphira, then forced himself to go even faster. The Urgal rapidly gained ground despite

Eragon’s efforts; large fangs separated in a soundless bellow. With the Urgal almost upon

him, Eragon strung an arrow, spun to a stop, took aim, and released. The Urgal snapped

up his arm and caught the quivering bolt on his shield. The monster collided with Eragon

before he could shoot again, and they fell to the ground in a confused tangle.

Eragon sprang to his feet and rushed back to Brom, who was trading fierce blows with

his opponent from Snowfire’s back. Where are the rest of the Urgals? wondered Eragon

frantically. Are these two the only ones in Yazuac? There was a loud smack, and Snowfire reared, whinnying. Brom doubled over in his saddle, blood streaming down his arm. The

Urgal beside him howled in triumph and raised his ax for the death blow.

A deafening scream tore out of Eragon as he charged the Urgal, headfirst. The Urgal

paused in astonishment, then faced him contemptuously, swinging his ax. Eragon ducked

under the two-handed blow and clawed the Urgal’s side, leaving bloody furrows. The

Urgal’s face twisted with rage. He slashed again, but missed as Eragon dived to the side

and scrambled down an alley.

Eragon concentrated on leading the Urgals away from Brom. He slipped into a narrow

passageway between two houses, saw it was a dead end, and slid to a stop. He tried to

back out, but the Urgals had already blocked the entrance. They advanced, cursing him in

their gravelly voices. Eragon swung his head from side to side, searching for a way out,

but there was none.

As he faced the Urgals, images flashed in his mind: dead villagers piled around the spear

and an innocent baby who would never grow to adulthood. At the thought of their fate, a

burning, fiery power gathered from every part of his body. It was more than a desire for

justice. It was his entire being rebelling against the fact of death—that he would cease to

exist. The power grew stronger and stronger until he felt ready to burst from the

contained force.

He stood tall and straight, all fear gone. He raised his bow smoothly. The Urgals laughed

and lifted their shields. Eragon sighted down the shaft, as he had done hundreds of times,

and aligned the arrowhead with his target. The energy inside him burned at an unbearable

level. He had to release it, or it would consume him. A word suddenly leapt unbidden to

his lips. He shot, yelling, “Brisingr!”

The arrow hissed through the air, glowing with a crackling blue light. It struck the lead

Urgal on the forehead, and the air resounded with an explosion. A blue shock wave

blasted out of the monster’s head, killing the other Urgal instantly. It reached Eragon

before he had time to react, and it passed through him without harm, dissipating against

the houses.

Eragon stood panting, then looked at his icy palm. The gedwëy ignasia was glowing like

white-hot metal, yet even as he watched, it faded back to normal. He clenched his fist,

then a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He felt strange and feeble, as if he had not

eaten for days. His knees buckled, and he sagged against a wall.

ADMONISHMENTS

Once a modicum of strength returned to him, Eragon staggered out of the alley, skirting

the dead monsters. He did not get far before Cadoc trotted to his side. “Good, you

weren’t hurt,” mumbled Eragon. He noticed, without particularly caring, that his hands

were shaking violently and his movements were jerky. He felt detached, as if everything

he saw were happening to someone else.

Eragon found Snowfire, nostrils flared and ears flat against his head, prancing by the

corner of a house, ready to bolt. Brom was still slumped motionless in the saddle. Eragon

reached out with his mind and soothed the horse. Once Snowfire relaxed, Eragon went to

Brom.

There was a long, blood-soaked cut on the old man’s right arm. The wound bled

profusely, but it was neither deep nor wide. Still, Eragon knew it had to be bound before

Brom lost too much blood. He stroked Snowfire for a moment, then slid Brom out of the

saddle. The weight proved too much for him, and Brom dropped heavily to the ground.

Eragon was shocked by his own weakness.

A scream of rage filled his head. Saphira dived out of the sky and landed fiercely in front

of him, keeping her wings half raised. She hissed angrily, eyes burning. Her tail lashed,

and Eragon winced as it snapped overhead. Are you hurt? she asked, rage boiling in her voice.

“No,” he assured her as he laid Brom on his back.

She growled and exclaimed, Where are the ones who did this? I will tear them apart!

He wearily pointed in the direction of the alley. “It’ll do no good; they’re already dead.”

You killed them? Saphira sounded surprised.

He nodded. “Somehow.” With a few terse words, he told her what had happened while he

searched his saddlebags for the rags in which Zar’roc had been wrapped.

Saphira said gravely, You have grown.

Eragon grunted. He found a long rag and carefully rolled back Brom’s sleeve. With a few

deft strokes he cleaned the cut and bandaged it tightly. I wish we were still in Palancar

Valley , he said to Saphira. There, at least, I knew what plants were good for healing.

Here, I don’t have any idea what will help him. He retrieved Brom’s sword from the

ground, wiped it, then returned it to the sheath on Brom’s belt.

We should leave, said Saphira. There may be more Urgals lurking about.

Can you carry Brom?Your saddle will hold him in place, and you can protect him.

Yes, but I’m not leaving you alone.

Fine, fly next to me, but let’s get out of here. He tied the saddle onto Saphira, then put his arms around Brom and tried to lift him, but again his diminished strength failed

him. Saphira—help.

She snaked her head past him and caught the back of Brom’s robe between her teeth.

Arching her neck, she lifted the old man off the ground, like a cat would a kitten, and

deposited him onto her back. Then Eragon slipped Brom’s legs through the saddle’s

straps and tightened them. He looked up when the old man moaned and shifted.

Brom blinked blearily, putting a hand to his head. He gazed down at Eragon with

concern. “Did Saphira get here in time?”

Eragon shook his head. “I’ll explain it later. Your arm is injured. I bandaged it as best I

could, but you need a safe place to rest.”

“Yes,” said Brom, gingerly touching his arm. “Do you know where my sword . . . Ah, I

see you found it.”

Eragon finished tightening the straps. “Saphira’s going to take you and follow me by air.”

“Are you sure you want me to ride her?” asked Brom. “I can ride Snowfire.”

“Not with that arm. This way, even if you faint, you won’t fall off.”

Brom nodded. “I’m honored.” He wrapped his good arm around Saphira’s neck, and she

took off in a flurry, springing high into the sky. Eragon backed away, buffeted by the

eddies from her wings, and returned to the horses.

He tied Snowfire behind Cadoc, then left Yazuac, returning to the trail and following it

southward. It led through a rocky area, veered left, and continued along the bank of the

Ninor River. Ferns, mosses, and small bushes dotted the side of the path. It was

refreshingly cool under the trees, but Eragon did not let the soothing air lull him into a

sense of security. He stopped briefly to fill the waterskins and let the horses drink.

Glancing down, he saw the Ra’zac’s spoor. At least we’re going in the right direction.

Saphira circled overhead, keeping a keen eye on him.

It disturbed him that they had seen only two Urgals. The villagers had been killed and

Yazuac ransacked by a large horde, yet where was it? Perhaps the ones we encountered

were a rear guard or a trap left for anyone who was following the main force.

His thoughts turned to how he had killed the Urgals. An idea, a revelation, slowly

wormed its way through his mind. He, Eragon—farm boy of Palancar Valley—had used

magic. Magic! It was the only word for what had happened. It seemed impossible, but he could not deny what he had seen. Somehow I’ve become a sorcerer or wizard! But he did

not know how to use this new power again or what its limits and dangers might be. How

can I have this ability? Was it common among the Riders? And if Brom knew of it, why

didn’t he tell me? He shook his head in wonder and bewilderment.

He conversed with Saphira to check on Brom’s condition and to share his thoughts. She

was just as puzzled as he was about the magic. Saphira, can you find us a place to stay? I

can’t see very far down here. While she searched, he continued along the Ninor.

The summons reached him just as the light was fading. Come. Saphira sent him an image

of a secluded clearing in the trees by the river. Eragon turned the horses in the new

direction and nudged them into a trot. With Saphira’s help it was easy to find, but it was

so well hidden that he doubted anyone else would notice it.

A small, smokeless fire was already burning when he entered the clearing. Brom sat next

to it, tending his arm, which he held at an awkward angle. Saphira was crouched beside

him, her body tense. She looked intently at Eragon and asked, Are you sure you aren’t

hurt?

Not on the outside . . . but I’m not sure about the rest of me.

I should have been there sooner.

Don’t feel bad. We all made mistakes today. Mine was not staying closer to you. Her

gratitude for that remark washed over him. He looked at Brom. “How are you?”

The old man glanced at his arm. “It’s a large scratch and hurts terribly, but it should heal

quickly enough. I need a fresh bandage; this one didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.” They

boiled water to wash Brom’s wound. Then Brom tied a fresh rag to his arm and said, “I

must eat, and you look hungry as well. Let’s have dinner first, then talk.”

When their bellies were full and warm, Brom lit his pipe. “Now, I think it’s time for you

to tell me what transpired while I was unconscious. I am most curious.” His face reflected

the flickering firelight, and his bushy eyebrows stuck out fiercely.

Eragon nervously clasped his hands and told the story without embellishment. Brom

remained silent throughout it, his face inscrutable. When Eragon finished, Brom looked

down at the ground. For a long time the only sound was the snapping fire. Brom finally

stirred. “Have you used this power before?”

“No. Do you know anything about it?”

“A little.” Brom’s face was thoughtful. “It seems I owe you a debt for saving my life. I

hope I can return the favor someday. You should be proud; few escape unscathed from

slaying their first Urgal. But the manner in which you did it was very dangerous. You

could have destroyed yourself and the whole town.”

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice,” said Eragon defensively. “The Urgals were almost upon

me. If I had waited, they would have chopped me into pieces!”

Brom stamped his teeth vigorously on the pipe stem. “You didn’t have any idea what you

were doing.”

“Then tell me,” challenged Eragon. “I’ve been searching for answers to this mystery, but

I can’t make sense of it. What happened? How could I have possibly used magic? No one

has ever instructed me in it or taught me spells.”

Brom’s eyes flashed. “This isn’t something you should be taught—much less use!”

“Well, I have used it, and I may need it to fight again. But I won’t be able to if you don’t help me. What’s wrong? Is there some secret I’m not supposed to learn until I’m old and

wise? Or maybe you don’t know anything about magic!”

“Boy!” roared Brom. “You demand answers with an insolence rarely seen. If you knew

what you asked for, you would not be so quick to inquire. Do not try me.” He paused,

then relaxed into a kinder countenance. “The knowledge you ask for is more complex

than you understand.”

Eragon rose hotly in protest. “I feel as though I’ve been thrust into a world with strange

rules that no one will explain.”

“I understand,” said Brom. He fiddled with a piece of grass. “It’s late and we should

sleep, but I will tell you a few things now, to stop your badgering. This magic—for it is

magic—has rules like the rest of the world. If you break the rules, the penalty is death,

without exception. Your deeds are limited by your strength, the words you know, and

your imagination.”

“What do you mean by words?” asked Eragon.

“More questions!” cried Brom. “For a moment I had hoped you were empty of them. But

you are quite right in asking. When you shot the Urgals, didn’t you say something?”

“Yes, brisingr. ” The fire flared, and a shiver ran through Eragon. Something about the word made him feel incredibly alive.

“I thought so. Brisingr is from an ancient language that all living things used to speak.

However, it was forgotten over time and went unspoken for eons in Alagaësia, until the

elves brought it back over the sea. They taught it to the other races, who used it for

making and doing powerful things. The language has a name for everything, if you can

find it.”

“But what does that have to do with magic?” interrupted Eragon.

“Everything! It is the basis for all power. The language describes the true nature of

things, not the superficial aspects that everyone sees. For example, fire is called brisingr .

Not only is that a name for fire, it is the name for fire. If you are strong enough, you can use brisingr to direct fire to do whatever you will. And that is what happened today.”

Eragon thought about it for a moment. “Why was the fire blue? How come it did exactly

what I wanted, if all I said was fire ?”

“The color varies from person to person. It depends on who says the word. As to why the

fire did what you wanted, that’s a matter of practice. Most beginners have to spell out

exactly what they want to happen. As they gain more experience, it isn’t as necessary. A

true master could just say water and create something totally unrelated, like a gemstone.

You wouldn’t be able to understand how he had done it, but the master would have seen

the connection between water and the gem and would have used that as the focal point for his power. The practice is more of an art than anything else. What you did was extremely

difficult.”

Saphira interrupted Eragon’s thoughts. Brom is a magician! That’s how he was able to

light the fire on the plains. He doesn’t just know about magic; he can use it himself!

Eragon’s eyes widened. You’re right!

Ask him about this power, but be careful of what you say. It is unwise to trifle with those who have such abilities. If he is a wizard or sorcerer, who knows what his motives might

have been for settling in Carvahall?

Eragon kept that in mind as he said carefully, “Saphira and I just realized something. You

can use this magic, can’t you? That’s how you started the fire our first day on the plains.”

Brom inclined his head slightly. “I am proficient to some degree.”

“Then why didn’t you fight the Urgals with it? In fact, I can think of many times when it

would have been useful—you could have shielded us from the storm and kept the dirt out

of our eyes.”

After refilling his pipe, Brom said, “Some simple reasons, really. I am not a Rider, which

means that, even at your weakest moment, you are stronger than I. And I have outlived

my youth; I’m not as strong as I used to be. Every time I reach for magic, it gets a little

harder.”

Eragon dropped his eyes, abashed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Brom as he shifted his arm. “It happens to everyone.”

“Where did you learn to use magic?”

“That is one fact I’ll keep to myself. . . . Suffice it to say, it was in a remote area and from a very good teacher. I can, at the very least, pass on his lessons.” Brom snuffed his pipe

with a small rock. “I know that you have more questions, and I will answer them, but

they must wait until morning.”

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Until then, I will say this to discourage any

experiments: magic takes just as much energy as if you used your arms and back. That is

why you felt tired after destroying the Urgals. And that is why I was angry. It was a

dreadful risk on your part. If the magic had used more energy than was in your body, it

would have killed you. You should use magic only for tasks that can’t be accomplished

the mundane way.”

“How do you know if a spell will use all your energy?” asked Eragon, frightened.

Brom raised his hands. “Most of the time you don’t. That’s why magicians have to know

their limits well, and even then they are cautious. Once you commit to a task and release

the magic, you can’t pull it back, even if it’s going to kill you. I mean this as a warning:

don’t try anything until you’ve learned more. Now, enough of this for tonight.”

As they spread out their blankets, Saphira commented with satisfaction, We are becoming

more powerful, Eragon, both of us. Soon no one will be able to stand in our way.

Yes, but which way shall we choose?

Whichever one we want, she said smugly, settling down for the night.

MAGICIS THE

SIMPLESTTHING

“Why do you think those two Urgals were still in Yazuac?” asked Eragon, after they

had been on the trail for a while. “There doesn’t seem to be any reason for them to have

stayed behind.”

“I suspect they deserted the main group to loot the town. What makes it odd is that, as far

as I know, Urgals have gathered in force only two or three times in history. It’s unsettling

that they are doing it now.”

“Do you think the Ra’zac caused the attack?”

“I don’t know. The best thing we can do is continue away from Yazuac at the fastest pace

we can muster. Besides, this is the direction the Ra’zac went: south.”

Eragon agreed. “We still need provisions, however. Is there another town nearby?”

Brom shook his head. “No, but Saphira can hunt for us if we must survive on meat alone.

This swath of trees may look small to you, but there are plenty of animals in it. The river

is the only source of water for many miles around, so most of the plains animals come

here to drink. We won’t starve.”

Eragon remained quiet, satisfied with Brom’s answer. As they rode, loud birds darted

around them, and the river rushed by peacefully. It was a noisy place, full of life and

energy. Eragon asked, “How did that Urgal get you? Things were happening so fast, I

didn’t see.”

“Bad luck, really,” grumbled Brom. “I was more than a match for him, so he kicked

Snowfire. The idiot of a horse reared and threw me off balance. That was all the Urgal

needed to give me this gash.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose you’re still wondering

about this magic. The fact that you’ve discovered it presents a thorny problem. Few know

it, but every Rider could use magic, though with differing strengths. They kept the ability

secret, even at the height of their power, because it gave them an advantage over their

enemies. Had everyone known about it, dealing with common people would have been

difficult. Many think the king’s magical powers come from the fact that he is a wizard or

sorcerer. That’s not true; it is because he’s a Rider.”

“What’s the difference? Doesn’t the fact that I used magic make me a sorcerer?”

“Not at all! A sorcerer, like a Shade, uses spirits to accomplish his will. That is totally

different from your power. Nor does that make you a magician, whose powers come

without the aid of spirits or a dragon. And you’re certainly not a witch or wizard, who get

their powers from various potions and spells.

“Which brings me back to my original point: the problem you’ve presented. Young

Riders like yourself were put through a strict regimen designed to strengthen their bodies

and increase their mental control. This regimen continued for many months, occasionally

years, until the Riders were deemed responsible enough to handle magic. Up until then,

not one student was told of his potential powers. If one of them discovered magic by

accident, he or she was immediately taken away for private tutoring. It was rare for

anyone to discover magic on his own,” he inclined his head toward Eragon, “though they

were never put under the same pressure you were.”

“Then how were they finally trained to use magic?” asked Eragon. “I don’t see how you

could teach it to anyone. If you had tried to explain it to me two days ago, it wouldn’t

have made any sense.”

“The students were presented with a series of pointless exercises designed to frustrate

them. For example, they were instructed to move piles of stones using only their feet, fill

ever draining tubs full of water, and other impossibilities. After a time, they would get

infuriated enough to use magic. Most of the time it succeeded.

“What this means,” Brom continued, “is that you will be disadvantaged if you ever meet

an enemy who has received this training. There are still some alive who are that old: the

king for one, not to mention the elves. Any one of those could tear you apart with ease.”

“What can I do, then?”

“There isn’t time for formal instruction, but we can do much while we travel,” said Brom.

“I know many techniques you can practice that will give you strength and control, but

you cannot gain the discipline the Riders had overnight. You,” he looked at Eragon

humorously, “will have to amass it on the run. It will be hard in the beginning, but the

rewards will be great. It may please you to know that no Rider your age ever used magic

the way you did yesterday with those two Urgals.”

Eragon smiled at the praise. “Thank you. Does this language have a name?”

Brom laughed. “Yes, but no one knows it. It would be a word of incredible power,

something by which you could control the entire language and those who use it. People

have long searched for it, but no one has ever found it.”

“I still don’t understand how this magic works,” said Eragon. “Exactly how do I use it?”

Brom looked astonished. “I haven’t made that clear?”

“No.”

Brom took a deep breath and said, “To work with magic, you must have a certain innate

power, which is very rare among people nowadays. You also have to be able to summon

this power at will. Once it is called upon, you have to use it or let it fade away.

Understood? Now, if you wish to employ the power, you must utter the word or phrase of

the ancient language that describes your intent. For example, if you hadn’t said brisingr

yesterday, nothing would have happened.”

“So I’m limited by my knowledge of this language?”

“Exactly,” crowed Brom. “Also, while speaking it, it’s impossible to practice deceit.”

Eragon shook his head. “That can’t be. People always lie. The sounds of the ancient

words can’t stop them from doing that.”

Brom cocked an eyebrow and said, “Fethrblaka, eka weohnata néiat haina ono. Blaka

eom iet lam.” A bird suddenly flitted from a branch and landed on his hand. It trilled

lightly and looked at them with beady eyes. After a moment he said, “Eitha,” and it

fluttered away.

“How did you do that?” asked Eragon in wonder.

“I promised not to harm him. He may not have known exactly what I meant, but in the

language of power, the meaning of my words was evident. The bird trusted me because

he knows what all animals do, that those who speak in that tongue are bound by their

word.”

“And the elves speak this language?”

“Yes.”

“So they never lie?”

“Not quite,” admitted Brom. “They maintain that they don’t, and in a way it’s true, but

they have perfected the art of saying one thing and meaning another. You never know

exactly what their intent is, or if you have fathomed it correctly. Many times they only

reveal part of the truth and withhold the rest. It takes a refined and subtle mind to deal

with their culture.”

Eragon considered that. “What do personal names mean in this language? Do they give

power over people?”

Brom’s eyes brightened with approval. “Yes, they do. Those who speak the language

have two names. The first is for everyday use and has little authority. But the second is

their true name and is shared with only a few trusted people. There was a time when no

one concealed his true name, but this age isn’t as kind. Whoever knows your true name

gains enormous power over you. It’s like putting your life into another person’s hands.

Everyone has a hidden name, but few know what it is.”

“How do you find your true name?” asked Eragon.

“Elves instinctively know theirs. No one else has that gift. The human Riders usually

went on quests to discover it—or found an elf who would tell them, which was rare, for

elves don’t distribute that knowledge freely,” replied Brom.

“I’d like to know mine,” Eragon said wistfully.

Brom’s brow darkened. “Be careful. It can be a terrible knowledge. To know who you are

without any delusions or sympathy is a moment of revelation that no one experiences

unscathed. Some have been driven to madness by that stark reality. Most try to forget it.

But as much as the name will give others power, so you may gain power over yourself, if

the truth doesn’t break you.”

And I’m sure that it would not, stated Saphira.

“I still wish to know,” said Eragon, determined.

“You are not easily dissuaded. That is good, for only the resolute find their identity, but I

cannot help you with this. It is a search that you will have to undertake on your own.”

Brom moved his injured arm and grimaced uncomfortably.

“Why can’t you or I heal that with magic?” asked Eragon.

Brom blinked. “No reason—I just never considered it because it’s beyond my strength.

You could probably do it with the right word, but I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.”

“I could save you a lot of trouble and pain,” protested Eragon.

“I’ll live with it,” said Brom flatly. “Using magic to heal a wound takes just as much

energy as it would to mend on its own. I don’t want you tired for the next few days. You

shouldn’t attempt such a difficult task yet.”

“Still, if it’s possible to fix your arm, could I bring someone back from the dead?”

The question surprised Brom, but he answered quickly, “Remember what I said about

projects that will kill you? That is one of them. Riders were forbidden to try to resurrect

the dead, for their own safety. There is an abyss beyond life where magic means nothing.

If you reach into it, your strength will flee and your soul will fade into darkness. Wizards,

sorcerers, and Riders—all have failed and died on that threshold. Stick with what’s

possible—cuts, bruises, maybe some broken bones—but definitely not dead people.”

Eragon frowned. “This is a lot more complex than I thought.”

“Exactly!” said Brom. “And if you don’t understand what you’re doing, you’ll try

something too big and die.” He twisted in his saddle and swooped down, grabbing a

handful of pebbles from the ground. With effort, he righted himself, then discarded all

but one of the rocks. “See this pebble?”

“Yes.”

“Take it.” Eragon did and stared at the unremarkable lump. It was dull black, smooth, and

as large as the end of his thumb. There were countless stones like it on the trail. “This is

your training.”

Eragon looked back at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Brom impatiently. “That’s why I’m teaching you and not the

other way around. Now stop talking or we’ll never get anywhere. What I want you to do

is lift the rock off your palm and hold it in the air for as long as you can. The words

you’re going to use are stenr reisa . Say them.”

“Stenr reisa.”

“Good. Go ahead and try.”

Eragon focused sourly on the pebble, searching his mind for any hint of the energy that

had burned in him the day before. The stone remained motionless as he stared at it,

sweating and frustrated. How am I supposed to do this? Finally, he crossed his arms and snapped, “This is impossible.”

“No,” said Brom gruffly. “I’ll say when it’s impossible or not. Fight for it! Don’t give in this easily. Try again.”

Frowning, Eragon closed his eyes, setting aside all distracting thoughts. He took a deep

breath and reached into the farthest corners of his consciousness, trying to find where his

power resided. Searching, he found only thoughts and memories until he felt something

different—a small bump that was a part of him and yet not of him. Excited, he dug into it,

seeking what it hid. He felt resistance, a barrier in his mind, but knew that the power lay

on the other side. He tried to breach it, but it held firm before his efforts. Growing angry,

Eragon drove into the barrier, ramming against it with all of his might until it shattered

like a thin pane of glass, flooding his mind with a river of light.

“Stenr reisa,” he gasped. The pebble wobbled into the air over his faintly glowing palm.

He struggled to keep it floating, but the power slipped away and faded back behind the

barrier. The pebble dropped to his hand with a soft plop, and his palm returned to normal.

He felt a little tired, but grinned from his success.

“Not bad for your first time,” said Brom.

“Why does my hand do that? It’s like a little lantern.”

“No one’s sure,” Brom admitted. “The Riders always preferred to channel their power

through whichever hand bore the gedwëy ignasia. You can use your other palm, but it

isn’t as easy.” He looked at Eragon for a minute. “I’ll buy you some gloves at the next

town, if it isn’t gutted. You hide the mark pretty well on your own, but we don’t want

anyone to see it by accident. Besides, there may be times when you won’t want the glow

to alert an enemy.”

“Do you have a mark of your own?”

“No. Only Riders have them,” said Brom. “Also, you should know that magic is affected

by distance, just like an arrow or a spear. If you try to lift or move something a mile

away, it’ll take more energy than if you were closer. So if you see enemies racing after

you from a league away, let them approach before using magic. Now, back to work! Try

to lift the pebble again.”

“Again?” asked Eragon weakly, thinking of the effort it had taken to do it just once.

“Yes! And this time be quicker about it.”

They continued with the exercises throughout most of the day. When Eragon finally

stopped, he was tired and ill-tempered. In those hours, he had come to hate the pebble

and everything about it. He started to throw it away, but Brom said, “Don’t. Keep it.”

Eragon glared at him, then reluctantly tucked the stone into a pocket.

“We’re not done yet,” warned Brom, “so don’t get comfortable.” He pointed at a small

plant. “This is called delois .” From there on he instructed Eragon in the ancient language, giving him words to memorize, from vöndr, a thin, straight stick, to the morning

star, Aiedail .

That evening they sparred around the fire. Though Brom fought with his left hand, his

skill was undiminished.

The days followed the same pattern. First, Eragon struggled to learn the ancient words

and to manipulate the pebble. Then, in the evening, he trained against Brom with the fake

swords. Eragon was in constant discomfort, but he gradually began to change, almost

without noticing. Soon the pebble no longer wobbled when he lifted it. He mastered the

first exercises Brom gave him and undertook harder ones, and his knowledge of the

ancient language grew.

In their sparring, Eragon gained confidence and speed, striking like a snake. His blows

became heavier, and his arm no longer trembled when he warded off attacks. The clashes

lasted longer as he learned how to fend off Brom. Now, when they went to sleep, Eragon

was not the only one with bruises.

Saphira continued to grow as well, but more slowly than before. Her extended flights,

along with periodic hunts, kept her fit and healthy. She was taller than the horses now,

and much longer. Because of her size and the way her scales sparkled, she was altogether

too visible. Brom and Eragon worried about it, but they could not convince her to allow

dirt to obscure her scintillating hide.

They continued south, tracking the Ra’zac. It frustrated Eragon that no matter how fast

they went, the Ra’zac always stayed a few days ahead of them. At times he was ready to

give up, but then they would find some mark or print that would renew his hope.

There were no signs of habitation along the Ninor or in the plains, leaving the three

companions undisturbed as the days slipped by. Finally, they neared Daret, the first

village since Yazuac.

The night before they reached the village, Eragon’s dreams were especially vivid.

He saw Garrow and Roran at home, sitting in the destroyed kitchen. They asked him for

help rebuilding the farm, but he only shook his head with a pang of longing in his heart.

“I’m tracking your killers,” he whispered to his uncle.

Garrow looked at him askance and demanded, “Do I look dead to you?”

“I can’t help you,” said Eragon softly, feeling tears in his eyes.

There was a sudden roar, and Garrow transformed into the Ra’zac. “Then die,” they

hissed, and leapt at Eragon.

He woke up feeling ill and watched the stars slowly turn in the sky.

All will be well, little one, said Saphira gently.

DARET

Daret was on the banks of the Ninor River—as it had to be to survive. The village was

small and wild-looking, without any signs of inhabitants. Eragon and Brom approached it

with great caution. Saphira hid close to the town this time; if trouble arose, she would be

at their sides within seconds.

They rode into Daret, striving to be silent. Brom gripped his sword with his good hand,

eyes flashing everywhere. Eragon kept his bow partially drawn as they passed between

the silent houses, glancing at each other with apprehension. This doesn’t look good,

commented Eragon to Saphira. She did not answer, but he felt her prepare to rush after

them. He looked at the ground and was reassured to see the fresh footprints of

children. But where are they?

Brom stiffened as they entered the center of Daret and found it empty. Wind blew

through the desolate town, and dust devils swirled sporadically. Brom wheeled Snowfire

about. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like the feel of this.” He spurred Snowfire into a

gallop. Eragon followed him, urging Cadoc onward.

They advanced only a few strides before wagons toppled out from behind the houses and

blocked their way. Cadoc snorted and dug in his hooves, sliding to a stop next to

Snowfire. A swarthy man hopped over the wagon and planted himself before them, a

broadsword slung at his side and a drawn bow in his hands. Eragon swung his own bow

up and pointed it at the stranger, who commanded, “Halt! Put your weapons down.

You’re surrounded by sixty archers. They’ll shoot if you move.” As if on cue, a row of

men stood up on the roofs of the surrounding houses.

Stay away, Saphira! cried Eragon. There are too many. If you come, they’ll shoot you out of the sky. Stay away! She heard, but he was unsure if she would obey. He prepared to

use magic. I’ll have to stop the arrows before they hit me or Brom.

“What do you want?” asked Brom calmly.

“Why have you come here?” demanded the man.

“To buy supplies and hear the news. Nothing more. We’re on the way to my cousin’s

house in Dras-Leona.”

“You’re armed pretty heavily.”

“So are you,” said Brom. “These are dangerous times.”

“True.” The man looked at them carefully. “I don’t think you mean us ill, but we’ve had

too many encounters with Urgals and bandits for me to trust you only on your word.”

“If it doesn’t matter what we say, what happens now?” countered Brom. The men on top

of the houses had not moved. By their very stillness, Eragon was sure that they were

either highly disciplined . . . or frightened for their lives. He hoped it was the latter.

“You say that you only want supplies. Would you agree to stay here while we bring what

you need, then pay us and leave immediately?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said the man, lowering his bow, though he kept it ready. He waved at one of

the archers, who slid to the ground and ran over. “Tell him what you want.”

Brom recited a short list and then added, “Also, if you have a spare pair of gloves that

would fit my nephew, I’d like to buy those too.” The archer nodded and ran off.

“The name’s Trevor,” said the man standing in front of them. “Normally I’d shake your

hand, but under the circumstances, I think I’ll keep my distance. Tell me, where are you

from?”

“North,” said Brom, “but we haven’t lived in any place long enough to call it home. Have

Urgals forced you to take these measures?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, “and worse fiends. Do you have any news from other towns? We

receive word from them rarely, but there have been reports that they are also

beleaguered.”

Brom turned grave. “I wish it wasn’t our lot to bring you these tidings. Nearly a fortnight

ago we passed through Yazuac and found it pillaged. The villagers had been slaughtered

and piled together. We would have tried to give them a decent burial, but two Urgals

attacked us.”

Shocked, Trevor stepped back and looked down with tears in his eyes. “Alas, this is

indeed a dark day. Still, I don’t see how two Urgals could have defeated all of Yazuac.

The people there were good fighters—some were my friends.”

“There were signs that a band of Urgals had ravaged the town,” stated Brom. “I think the

ones we encountered were deserters.”

“How large was the company?”

Brom fiddled with his saddlebags for a minute. “Large enough to wipe out Yazuac, but

small enough to go unnoticed in the countryside. No more than a hundred, and no less

than fifty. If I’m not mistaken, either number would prove fatal to you.” Trevor wearily

agreed. “You should consider leaving,” Brom continued. “This area has become far too

perilous for anyone to live in peace.”

“I know, but the people here refuse to consider moving. This is their home—as well as

mine, though I have only been here a couple years—and they place its worth above their

own lives.” Trevor looked at him seriously. “We have repulsed individual Urgals, and

that has given the townspeople a confidence far beyond their abilities. I fear that we will

all wake up one morning with our throats slashed.”

The archer hurried out of a house with a pile of goods in his arms. He set them next to the

horses, and Brom paid him. As the man left, Brom asked, “Why did they choose you to

defend Daret?”

Trevor shrugged. “I was in the king’s army for some years.”

Brom dug through the items, handed Eragon the pair of gloves, and packed the rest of the

supplies into their saddlebags. Eragon pulled the gloves on, being careful to keep his

palm facing down, and flexed his hands. The leather felt good and strong, though it was

scarred from use. “Well,” said Brom, “as I promised, we will go now.”

Trevor nodded. “When you enter Dras-Leona, would you do us this favor? Alert the

Empire to our plight and that of the other towns. If word of this hasn’t reached the king

by now, it’s cause for worry. And if it has, but he has chosen to do nothing, that too is

cause for worry.”

“We will carry your message. May your swords stay sharp,” said Brom.

“And yours.”

The wagons were pulled out of their way, and they rode from Daret into the trees along

the Ninor River. Eragon sent his thoughts to Saphira. We’re on our way back. Everything

turned out all right. Her only response was simmering anger.

Brom pulled at his beard. “The Empire is in worse condition than I had imagined. When

the traders visited Carvahall, they brought reports of unrest, but I never believed that it

was this widespread. With all these Urgals around, it seems that the Empire itself is under

attack, yet no troops or soldiers have been sent out. It’s as if the king doesn’t care to

defend his domain.”

“It is strange,” agreed Eragon.

Brom ducked under a low-hanging branch. “Did you use any of your powers while we

were in Daret?”

“There was no reason to.”

“Wrong,” corrected Brom. “You could have sensed Trevor’s intentions. Even with my

limited abilities, I was able to do that. If the villagers had been bent on killing us, I

wouldn’t have just sat there. However, I felt there was a reasonable chance of talking our

way out of there, which is what I did.”

“How could I know what Trevor was thinking?” asked Eragon. “Am I supposed to be

able to see into people’s minds?”

“Come now,” chided Brom, “you should know the answer to that. You could have

discovered Trevor’s purpose in the same way that you communicate with Cadoc or

Saphira. The minds of men are not so different from a dragon’s or horse’s. It’s a simple

thing to do, but it’s a power you must use sparingly and with great caution. A person’s

mind is his last sanctuary. You must never violate it unless circumstances force you to.

The Riders had very strict rules regarding this. If they were broken without due cause, the

punishment was severe.”

“And you can do this even though you aren’t a Rider?” asked Eragon.

“As I said before, with the right instruction anyone can talk with their minds, but with

differing amounts of success. Whether it’s magic, though, is hard to tell. Magical abilities

will certainly trigger the talent—or becoming linked with a dragon—but I’ve known

plenty who learned it on their own. Think about it: you can communicate with any

sentient being, though the contact may not be very clear. You could spend the entire day

listening to a bird’s thoughts or understanding how an earthworm feels during a

rainstorm. But I’ve never found birds very interesting. I suggest starting with a cat; they

have unusual personalities.”

Eragon twisted Cadoc’s reins in his hands, considering the implications of what Brom

had said. “But if I can get into someone’s head, doesn’t that mean that others can do the

same to me? How do I know if someone’s prying in my mind? Is there a way to stop

that?” How do I know if Brom can tell what I’m thinking right now?

“Why, yes. Hasn’t Saphira ever blocked you from her mind?”

“Occasionally,” admitted Eragon. “When she took me into the Spine, I couldn’t talk to

her at all. It wasn’t that she was ignoring me; I don’t think she could even hear me. There

were walls around her mind that I couldn’t get through.”

Brom worked on his bandage for a moment, shifting it higher on his arm. “Only a few

people can tell if someone is in their mind, and of those, only a handful could stop you

from entering. It’s a matter of training and of how you think. Because of your magical

power, you’ll always know if someone is in your mind. Once you do, blocking them is a

simple matter of concentrating on one thing to the exclusion of all else. For instance, if

you only think about a brick wall, that’s all the enemy will find in your mind. However, it

takes a huge amount of energy and discipline to block someone for any length of time. If

you’re distracted by even the slightest thing, your wall will waver and your opponent will

slip in through the weakness.”

“How can I learn to do this?” asked Eragon.

“There is only one thing for it: practice, practice, and yet more practice. Picture

something in your mind and hold it there to the exclusion of all else for as long as you

can. It is a very advanced ability; only a handful ever master it,” said Brom.

“I don’t need perfection, just safety.” If I can get into someone’s mind, can I change how

he thinks? Every time I learn something new about magic, I grow more wary of it.

When they reached Saphira, she startled them by thrusting her head at them. The horses

backstepped nervously. Saphira looked Eragon over carefully and gave a low hiss. Her

eyes were flinty. Eragon threw a concerned look at Brom—he had never seen Saphira

this angry—then asked, What’s wrong?

You, she growled. You are the problem.

Eragon frowned and got off Cadoc. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Saphira

swept his legs out from under him with her tail and pinned him with her talons. “What are

you doing?” he yelled, struggling to get up, but she was too strong for him. Brom

watched attentively from Snowfire.

Saphira swung her head over Eragon until they were eye to eye. He squirmed under her

unwavering glare. You! Every time you leave my sight you get into trouble. You’re like a

new hatchling, sticking your nose into everything. And what happens when you stick it

into something that bites back? How will you survive then? I cannot help you when I’m

miles away. I’ve stayed hidden so that no one would see me, but no longer! Not when it

may cost you your life.

I can understand why you’re upset, said Eragon, but I’m much older than you and can take care of myself. If anything, you’re the one who needs to be protected.

She snarled and snapped her teeth by his ear. Do you really believe that? she

asked. Tomorrow you will ride me—not that pitiful deer-animal you call a horse—or else

I will carry you in my claws. Are you a Dragon Rider or not? Don’t you care for me?

The question burned in Eragon, and he dropped his gaze. He knew she was right, but he

was scared of riding her. Their flights had been the most painful ordeal he had ever

endured.

“Well?” demanded Brom.

“She wants me to ride her tomorrow,” said Eragon lamely.

Brom considered it with twinkling eyes. “Well, you have the saddle. I suppose that if the

two of you stay out of sight, it won’t be a problem.” Saphira switched her gaze to him,

then returned it to Eragon.

“But what if you’re attacked or there’s an accident? I won’t be able to get there in time

and—”

Saphira pressed harder on his chest, stopping his words. Exactly my point, little one.

Brom seemed to hide a smile. “It’s worth the risk. You need to learn how to ride her

anyway. Think about it this way: with you flying ahead and looking at the ground, you’ll

be able to spot any traps, ambushes, or other unwelcome surprises.”

Eragon looked back at Saphira and said, Okay, I’ll do it. But let me up.

Give me your word.

Is that really necessary? he demanded. She blinked. Very well. I give you my word that I will fly with you tomorrow. Satisfied?

I am content.

Saphira let him up and, with a push of her legs, took off. A small shiver ran through

Eragon as he watched her twist through the air. Grumbling, he returned to Cadoc and

followed Brom.

It was nearly sundown when they made camp. As usual, Eragon dueled with Brom before

dinner. In the midst of the fight, Eragon delivered such a powerful blow that he snapped

both of their sticks like twigs. The pieces whistled into the darkness in a cloud of

splintered fragments. Brom tossed what remained of his stick into the fire and said,

“We’re done with these; throw yours in as well. You have learned well, but we’ve gone

as far as we can with branches. There is nothing more you can gain from them. It is time

for you to use the blade.” He removed Zar’roc from Eragon’s bag and gave it to him.

“We’ll cut each other to ribbons,” protested Eragon.

“Not so. Again you forget magic,” said Brom. He held up his sword and turned it so that

firelight glinted off the edge. He put a finger on either side of the blade and focused

intensely, deepening the lines on his forehead. For a moment nothing happened, then he

uttered, “Gëuloth du knífr!” and a small red spark jumped between his fingers. As it

flickered back and forth, he ran his fingers down the length of the sword. Then he twirled

it and did the same thing on the other side. The spark vanished the moment his fingers

left the metal.

Brom held his hand out, palm up, and slashed it with the sword. Eragon jumped forward

but was too slow to stop him. He was astonished when Brom raised his unharmed hand

with a smile. “What did you do?” asked Eragon.

“Feel the edge,” said Brom. Eragon touched it and felt an invisible surface under his

fingers. The barrier was about a quarter inch wide and very slippery. “Now do the same

on Zar’roc,” instructed Brom. “Your block will be a bit different than mine, but it should

accomplish the same thing.”

He told Eragon how to pronounce the words and coached him through the process. It took

Eragon a few tries, but he soon had Zar’roc’s edge protected. Confident, he took his

fighting stance. Before they started, Brom admonished, “These swords won’t cut us, but

they can still break bones. I would prefer to avoid that, so don’t flail around like you

normally do. A blow to the neck could prove fatal.”

Eragon nodded, then struck without warning. Sparks flew off his blade, and the clash of

metal filled their campsite as Brom parried. The sword felt slow and heavy to Eragon

after fighting with sticks for so long. Unable to move Zar’roc fast enough, he received a

sharp rap on his knee.

They both had large welts when they stopped, Eragon more so than Brom. He marveled

that Zar’roc had not been scratched or dented by the vigorous pounding it had received.

THROUGH A

DRAGON’SEYE

The next morning Eragon woke with stiff limbs and purple bruises. He saw Brom carry

the saddle to Saphira and tried to quell his uneasiness. By the time breakfast was ready,

Brom had strapped the saddle onto Saphira and hung Eragon’s bags from it.

When his bowl was empty, Eragon silently picked up his bow and went to Saphira. Brom

said, “Now remember, grip with your knees, guide her with your thoughts, and stay as

flat as you can on her back. Nothing will go wrong if you don’t panic.” Eragon nodded,

sliding his unstrung bow into its leather tube, and Brom boosted him into the saddle.

Saphira waited impatiently while Eragon tightened the bands around his legs. Are you

ready? she asked.

He sucked in the fresh morning air. No, but let’s do it! She agreed enthusiastically. He braced himself as she crouched. Her powerful legs surged and the air whipped past him,

snatching his breath away. With three smooth strokes of her wings, she was in the sky,

climbing rapidly.

The last time Eragon had ridden Saphira, every flap of her wings had been strained. Now

she flew steadily and effortlessly. He clenched his arms around her neck as she turned on

edge, banking. The river shrank to a wispy gray line beneath them. Clouds floated around

them.

When they leveled off high above the plains, the trees below were no more than specks.

The air was thin, chilly, and perfectly clear. “This is wonderfu—” His words were lost as

Saphira tilted and rolled completely around. The ground spun in a dizzying circle, and

vertigo clutched Eragon. “Don’t do that!” he cried. “I feel like I’m going to fall off.”

You must become accustomed to it. If I’m attacked in the air, that’s one of the simplest

maneuvers I will do, she replied. He could think of no rebuttal, so he concentrated on controlling his stomach. Saphira angled into a shallow dive and slowly approached the

ground.

Although Eragon’s stomach lurched with every wobble, he began to enjoy himself. He

relaxed his arms a bit and stretched his neck back, taking in the scenery. Saphira let him

enjoy the sights awhile, then said, Let me show you what flying is really like.

How? he asked.

Relax and do not be afraid, she said.

Her mind tugged at his, pulling him away from his body. Eragon fought for a moment,

then surrendered control. His vision blurred, and he found himself looking through

Saphira’s eyes. Everything was distorted: colors had weird, exotic tints; blues were more

prominent now, while greens and reds were subdued. Eragon tried to turn his head and

body but could not. He felt like a ghost who had slipped out of the ether.

Pure joy radiated from Saphira as she climbed into the sky. She loved this freedom to go

anywhere. When they were high above the ground, she looked back at Eragon. He saw

himself as she did, hanging on to her with a blank look. He could feel her body strain

against the air, using updrafts to rise. All her muscles were like his own. He felt her tail

swinging through the air like a giant rudder to correct her course. It surprised him how

much she depended on it.

Their connection grew stronger until there was no distinction between their identities.

They clasped their wings together and dived straight down, like a spear thrown from on

high. No terror of falling touched Eragon, engulfed as he was in Saphira’s exhilaration.

The air rushed past their face. Their tail whipped in the air, and their joined minds reveled

in the experience.

Even as they plummeted toward the ground, there was no fear of collision. They snapped

open their wings at just the right moment, pulling out of the dive with their combined

strength. Slanting toward the sky, they shot up and continued back over into a giant loop.

As they leveled out, their minds began to diverge, becoming distinct personalities again.

For a split second, Eragon felt both his body and Saphira’s. Then his vision blurred and

he again sat on her back. He gasped and collapsed on the saddle. It was minutes before

his heart stopped hammering and his breathing calmed. Once he had recovered, he

exclaimed, That was incredible! How can you bear to land when you enjoy flying so

much?

I must eat, she said with some amusement. But I am glad that you took pleasure in it.

Those are spare words for such an experience. I’m sorry I haven’t flown with you more; I

never thought it could be like that. Do you always see so much blue?

It is the way I am. We will fly together more often now?

Yes! Every chance we get.

Good, she replied in a contented tone.

They exchanged many thoughts as she flew, talking as they had not for weeks. Saphira

showed Eragon how she used hills and trees to hide and how she could conceal herself in

the shadow of a cloud. They scouted the trail for Brom, which proved to be more arduous

than Eragon expected. They could not see the path unless Saphira flew very close to it, in

which case she risked being detected.

Near midday, an annoying buzz filled Eragon’s ears, and he became aware of a strange

pressure on his mind. He shook his head, trying to get rid of it, but the tension only grew

stronger. Brom’s words about how people could break into others’ minds flashed through

Eragon’s head, and he frantically tried to clear his thoughts. He concentrated on one of

Saphira’s scales and forced himself to ignore everything else. The pressure faded for a

moment and then returned, greater than ever. A sudden gust rocked Saphira, and

Eragon’s concentration slipped. Before he could marshal any defenses, the force broke

through. But instead of the invasive presence of another mind, there were only the

words, What do you think you’re doing? Get down here. I found something important.

Brom? queried Eragon.

Yes, the old man said irritably. Now get that oversized lizard of yours to land. I’m here. . . .

He sent a picture of his location. Eragon quickly told Saphira where to go, and she

banked toward the river below. Meanwhile, he strung his bow and drew several arrows.

If there’s trouble, I’ll be ready for it.

As will I, said Saphira.

When they reached Brom, Eragon saw him standing in a clearing, waving his arms.

Saphira landed, and Eragon jumped off her and looked for danger. The horses were tied

to a tree on the edge of the clearing, but otherwise Brom was alone. Eragon trotted over

and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Brom scratched his chin and muttered a string of curses. “Don’t ever block me out like

that again. It’s hard enough for me to reach you without having to fight to make myself

heard.”

“Sorry.”

He snorted. “I was farther down the river when I noticed that the Ra’zac’s tracks had

ceased. I backtracked until I found where they had disappeared. Look at the ground and

tell me what you see.”

Eragon knelt and examined the dirt and found a confusion of impressions that were

difficult to decipher. Numerous Ra’zac footprints overlapped each other. Eragon guessed

that the tracks were only a few days old. Superimposed over them were long, thick

gouges torn into the ground. They looked familiar, but Eragon could not say why.

He stood, shaking his head. “I don’t have any idea what . . .” Then his eyes fell on

Saphira and he realized what had made the gouges. Every time she took off, her back

claws dug into the ground and ripped it in the same manner. “This doesn’t make any

sense, but the only thing I can think of is that the Ra’zac flew off on dragons. Or else they

got onto giant birds and disappeared into the heavens. Tell me you have a better

explanation.”

Brom shrugged. “I’ve heard reports of the Ra’zac moving from place to place with

incredible speed, but this is the first evidence I’ve had of it. It will be almost impossible

to find them if they have flying steeds. They aren’t dragons—I know that much. A

dragon would never consent to bear a Ra’zac.”

“What do we do? Saphira can’t track them through the sky. Even if she could, we would

leave you far behind.”

“There’s no easy solution to this riddle,” said Brom. “Let’s have lunch while we think on

it. Perhaps inspiration will strike us while we eat.” Eragon glumly went to his bags for

food. They ate in silence, staring at the empty sky.

Once again Eragon thought of home and wondered what Roran was doing. A vision of

the burnt farm appeared before him and grief threatened to overwhelm him. What will I do

if we can’t find the Ra’zac? What is my purpose then? I could return to Carvahall— he

plucked a twig from the ground and snapped it between two fingers— or just travel with

Brom and continue my training. Eragon stared out at the plains, hoping to quiet his

thoughts.

When Brom finished eating, he stood and threw back his hood. “I have considered every

trick I know, every word of power within my grasp, and all the skills we have, but I still

don’t see how we can find the Ra’zac.” Eragon slumped against Saphira in despair.

“Saphira could show herself at some town. That would draw the Ra’zac like flies to

honey. But it would be an extremely risky thing to attempt. The Ra’zac would bring

soldiers with them, and the king might be interested enough to come himself, which

would spell certain death for you and me.”

“So what now?” asked Eragon, throwing his hands up. Do you have any ideas, Saphira?

No.

“That’s up to you,” said Brom. “This is your crusade.”

Eragon ground his teeth angrily and stalked away from Brom and Saphira. Just as he was

about to enter the trees, his foot struck something hard. Lying on the ground was a metal

flask with a leather strap just long enough to hang off someone’s shoulder. A silver

insignia Eragon recognized as the Ra’zac’s symbol was wrought into it.

Excited, he picked up the flask and unscrewed its cap. A cloying smell filled the air—the

same one he had noticed when he found Garrow in the wreckage of their house. He tilted

the flask, and a drop of clear, shiny liquid fell on his finger. Instantly Eragon’s finger

burned as if it were on fire. He yelped and scrubbed his hand on the ground. After a

moment the pain subsided to a dull throbbing. A patch of skin had been eaten away.

Grimacing, he jogged back to Brom. “Look what I found.” Brom took the flask and

examined it, then poured a bit of the liquid into the cap. Eragon started to warn him,

“Watch out, it’ll burn—”

“My skin, I know,” said Brom. “And I suppose you went ahead and poured it all over

your hand. Your finger? Well, at least you showed sense enough not to drink it. Only a

puddle would have been left of you.”

“What is it?” asked Eragon.

“Oil from the petals of the Seithr plant, which grows on a small island in the frigid

northern seas. In its natural state, the oil is used for preserving pearls—it makes them

lustrous and strong. But when specific words are spoken over the oil, along with a blood

sacrifice, it gains the property to eat any flesh. That alone wouldn’t make it special—

there are plenty of acids that can dissolve sinew and bone—except for the fact that it

leaves everything else untouched. You can dip anything into the oil and pull it out

unharmed, unless it was once part of an animal or human. This has made it a weapon of

choice for torture and assassination. It can be stored in wood, slathered on the point of a

spear, or dripped onto sheets so that the next person to touch them will be burned. There

are myriad uses for it, limited only by your ingenuity. Any injury caused by it is always

slow to heal. It’s rather rare and expensive, especially this converted form.”

Eragon remembered the terrible burns that had covered Garrow. That’s what they used on

him, he realized with horror. “I wonder why the Ra’zac left it behind if it’s so valuable.”

“It must have slipped off when they flew away.”

“But why didn’t they come back for it? I doubt that the king will be pleased that they lost

it.”

“No, he won’t,” said Brom, “but he would be even more displeased if they delayed

bringing him news of you. In fact, if the Ra’zac have reached him by now, you can be

sure that the king has learned your name. And that means we will have to be much more

careful when we go into towns. There will be notices and alerts about you posted

throughout the Empire.”

Eragon paused to think. “This oil, how rare is it exactly?”

“Like diamonds in a pig trough,” said Brom. He amended himself after a second,

“Actually, the normal oil is used by jewelers, but only those who can afford it.”

“So there are people who trade in it?”

“Perhaps one, maybe two.”

“Good,” said Eragon. “Now, do the cities along the coast keep shipping records?”

Brom’s eyes brightened. “Of course they do. If we could get to those records, they would

tell us who brought the oil south and where it went from there.”

“And the record of the Empire’s purchase will tell us where the Ra’zac live!” concluded

Eragon. “I don’t know how many people can afford this oil, but it shouldn’t be hard to

figure out which ones aren’t working for the Empire.”

“Genius!” exclaimed Brom, smiling. “I wish I had thought of this years ago; it would

have saved me many headaches. The coast is dotted with numerous cities and towns

where ships can land. I suppose that Teirm would be the place to start, as it controls most

of the trade.” Brom paused. “The last I heard, my old friend Jeod lives there. We haven’t

seen each other for many years, but he might be willing to help us. And because he’s a

merchant, it’s possible that he has access to those records.”

“How do we get to Teirm?”

“We’ll have to go southwest until we reach a high pass in the Spine. Once on the other

side, we can head up the coast to Teirm,” said Brom. A gentle wind pulled at his hair.

“Can we reach the pass within a week?”

“Easily. If we angle away from the Ninor and to our right, we might be able to see the

mountains by tomorrow.”

Eragon went to Saphira and mounted her. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.” When they were

at a good height, he said, I’m going to ride Cadoc tomorrow. Before you protest, know

that I am only doing it because I want to talk with Brom.

You should ride with him every other day. That way you can still receive your instruction,

and I will have time to hunt.

You won’t be troubled by it?

It is necessary.

When they landed for the day, he was pleased to discover that his legs did not hurt. The

saddle had protected him well from Saphira’s scales.

Eragon and Brom had their nightly fight, but it lacked energy, as both were preoccupied

with the day’s events. By the time they finished, Eragon’s arms burned from Zar’roc’s

unaccustomed weight.

ASONG FOR

THEROAD

The next day while they were riding, Eragon asked Brom, “What is the sea like?”

“You must have heard it described before,” said Brom.

“Yes, but what is it really like?”

Brom’s eyes grew hazy, as if he looked upon some hidden scene. “The sea is emotion

incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with words and

rejects all shackles. No matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can’t.

Do you remember what I told you about how the elves came over the sea?”

“Yes.”

“Though they live far from the coast, they retain a great fascination and passion for the

ocean. The sound of crashing waves, the smell of salt air, it affects them deeply and has

inspired many of their loveliest songs. There is one that tells of this love, if you want to

hear it.”

“I would,” said Eragon, interested.

Brom cleared his throat and said, “I will translate it from the ancient language as best I

can. It won’t be perfect, but perhaps it will give you an idea of how the original sounds.”

He pulled Snowfire to a stop and closed his eyes. He was silent for a while, then chanted

softly:

O liquid temptress ’neath the azure sky,

Your gilded expanse calls me, calls me.

For I would sail ever on,

Were it not for the elven maid,

Who calls me, calls me.

She binds my heart with a lily-white tie,

Never to be broken, save by the sea,

Ever to be torn twixt the trees and the waves.

The words echoed hauntingly in Eragon’s head. “There is much more to that song, the

‘Du Silbena Datia.’ I have only recited one of its verses. It tells the sad tale of two lovers, Acallamh and Nuada, who were separated by longing for the sea. The elves find great

meaning in the story.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Eragon simply.

The Spine was a faint outline on the horizon when they halted that evening.

When they arrived at the Spine’s foothills, they turned and followed the mountains south.

Eragon was glad to be near the mountains again; they placed comforting boundaries on

the world. Three days later they came to a wide road rutted by wagon wheels. “This is the

main road between the capital, Urû’baen, and Teirm,” said Brom. “It’s widely used and a

favorite route for merchants. We have to be more cautious. This isn’t the busiest time of

year, but a few people are bound to be using the road.”

Days passed quickly as they continued to trek along the Spine, searching for the

mountain pass. Eragon could not complain of boredom. When not learning the elven

language, he was either learning how to care for Saphira or practicing magic. Eragon also

learned how to kill game with magic, which saved them time hunting. He would hold a

small rock on his hand and shoot it at his prey. It was impossible to miss. The results of

his efforts roasted over the fire each night. And after dinner, Brom and Eragon would

spar with swords and, occasionally, fists.

The long days and strenuous work stripped Eragon’s body of excess fat. His arms became

corded, and his tanned skin rippled with lean muscles. Everything about me is turning

hard, he thought dryly.

When they finally reached the pass, Eragon saw that a river rushed out of it and cut

across the road. “This is the Toark,” explained Brom. “We’ll follow it all the way to the

sea.”

“How can we,” laughed Eragon, “if it flows out of the Spine in this direction? It won’t end up in the ocean unless it doubles back on itself.”

Brom twisted the ring on his finger. “Because in the middle of the mountains rests the

Woadark Lake. A river flows from each end of it and both are called the Toark. We see

the eastward one now. It runs to the south and winds through the brush until it joins

Leona Lake. The other one goes to the sea.”

After two days in the Spine, they came upon a rock ledge from which they could see

clearly out of the mountains. Eragon noticed how the land flattened in the distance, and

he groaned at the leagues they still had to traverse. Brom pointed. “Down there and to the

north lies Teirm. It is an old city. Some say it’s where the elves first landed in Alagaësia.

Its citadel has never fallen, nor have its warriors ever been defeated.” He spurred

Snowfire forward and left the ledge.

It took them until noon the next day to descend through the foothills and arrive at the

other side of the Spine, where the forested land quickly leveled out. Without the

mountains to hide behind, Saphira flew close to the ground, using every hollow and dip

in the land to conceal herself.

Beyond the forest, they noticed a change. The countryside was covered with soft turf and

heather that their feet sank into. Moss clung to every stone and branch and lined the

streams that laced the ground. Pools of mud pocked the road where horses had trampled

the dirt. Before long both Brom and Eragon were splattered with grime.

“Why is everything green?” asked Eragon. “Don’t they have winter here?”

“Yes, but the season is mild. Mist and fog roll in from the sea and keep everything alive.

Some find it to their liking, but to me it’s dreary and depressing.”

When evening fell, they set up camp in the driest spot they could find. As they ate, Brom

commented, “You should continue to ride Cadoc until we reach Teirm. It’s likely that

we’ll meet other travelers now that we are out of the Spine, and it will be better if you are

with me. An old man traveling alone will raise suspicion. With you at my side, no one

will ask questions. Besides, I don’t want to show up at the city and have someone who

saw me on the trail wondering where you suddenly came from.”

“Will we use our own names?” asked Eragon.

Brom thought about it. “We won’t be able to deceive Jeod. He already knows my name,

and I think I trust him with yours. But to everyone else, I will be Neal and you will be my

nephew Evan. If our tongues slip and give us away, it probably won’t make a difference,

but I don’t want our names in anyone’s heads. People have an annoying habit of

remembering things they shouldn’t.”

ATASTE OFTEIRM

After two days of traveling north toward the ocean, Saphira sighted Teirm. A heavy fog

clung to the ground, obscuring Brom’s and Eragon’s sight until a breeze from the west

blew the mist away. Eragon gaped as Teirm was suddenly revealed before them, nestled

by the edge of the shimmering sea, where proud ships were docked with furled sails. The

surf’s dull thunder could be heard in the distance.

The city was contained behind a white wall—a hundred feet tall and thirty feet thick—

with rows of rectangular arrow slits lining it and a walkway on top for soldiers and

watchmen. The wall’s smooth surface was broken by two iron portcullises, one facing the

western sea, the other opening south to the road. Above the wall—and set against its

northeast section—rose a huge citadel built of giant stones and turrets. In the highest

tower, a lighthouse lantern gleamed brilliantly. The castle was the only thing visible over

the fortifications.

Soldiers guarded the southern gate but held their pikes carelessly. “This is our first test,”

said Brom. “Let’s hope they haven’t received reports of us from the Empire and won’t

detain us. Whatever happens, don’t panic or act suspiciously.”

Eragon told Saphira, You should land somewhere now and hide. We’re going in.

Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Again, she said sourly.

I know. But Brom and I do have some advantages most people don’t.We’ll be all right.

If anything happens, I’m going to pin you to my back and never let you off.

I love you too.

Then I will bind you all the tighter.

Eragon and Brom rode toward the gate, trying to appear casual. A yellow pennant bearing

the outline of a roaring lion and an arm holding a lily blossom waved over the entrance.

As they neared the wall, Eragon asked in amazement, “How big is this place?”

“Larger than any city you have ever seen,” said Brom.

At the entrance to Teirm, the guards stood straighter and blocked the gate with their

pikes. “Wha’s yer name?” asked one of them in a bored tone.

“I’m called Neal,” said Brom in a wheezy voice, slouching to one side, an expression of

happy idiocy on his face.

“And who’s th’ other one?” asked the guard.

“Well, I wus gettin’ to that. This’ed be m’nephew Evan. He’s m’sister’s boy, not a . . .”

The guard nodded impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. And yer business here?”

“He’s visitin’ an old friend,” supplied Eragon, dropping his voice into a thick accent.

“I’m along t’ make sure he don’t get lost, if y’ get m’meaning. He ain’t as young as he

used to be—had a bit too much sun when he was young’r. Touch o’ the brain fever, y’

know.” Brom bobbed his head pleasantly.

“Right. Go on through,” said the guard, waving his hand and dropping the pike. “Just

make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“Oh, he won’t,” promised Eragon. He urged Cadoc forward, and they rode into Teirm.

The cobblestone street clacked under the horses’ hooves.

Once they were away from the guards, Brom sat up and growled, “Touch of brain fever,

eh?”

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” teased Eragon.

Brom harrumphed and looked away.

The houses were grim and foreboding. Small, deep windows let in only sparse rays of

light. Narrow doors were recessed into the buildings. The tops of the roofs were flat—

except for metal railings—and all were covered with slate shingles. Eragon noticed that

the houses closest to Teirm’s outer wall were no more than one story, but the buildings

got progressively higher as they went in. Those next to the citadel were tallest of all,

though insignificant compared to the fortress.

“This place looks ready for war,” said Eragon.

Brom nodded. “Teirm has a history of being attacked by pirates, Urgals, and other

enemies. It has long been a center of commerce. There will always be conflict where

riches gather in such abundance. The people here have been forced to take extraordinary

measures to keep themselves from being overrun. It also helps that Galbatorix gives them

soldiers to defend their city.”

“Why are some houses higher than others?”

“Look at the citadel,” said Brom, pointing. “It has an unobstructed view of Teirm. If the

outer wall were breached, archers would be posted on all the roofs. Because the houses in

the front, by the outer wall, are lower, the men farther back could shoot over them

without fear of hitting their comrades. Also, if the enemy were to capture those houses

and put their own archers on them, it would be an easy matter to shoot them down.”

“I’ve never seen a city planned like this,” said Eragon in wonder.

“Yes, but it was only done after Teirm was nearly burned down by a pirate raid,”

commented Brom. As they continued up the street, people gave them searching looks, but

there was not an undue amount of interest.

Compared to our reception at Daret, we’ve been welcomed with open arms. Perhaps

Teirm has escaped notice by the Urgals, thought Eragon. He changed his opinion when a

large man shouldered past them, a sword hanging from his waist. There were other,

subtler signs of adverse times: no children played in the streets, people bore hard

expressions, and many houses were deserted, with weeds growing from cracks in their

stone-covered yards. “It looks like they’ve had trouble,” said Eragon.

“The same as everywhere else,” said Brom grimly. “We have to find Jeod.” They led

their horses across the street to a tavern and tied them to the hitching post. “The Green

Chestnut . . . wonderful,” muttered Brom, looking at the battered sign above them as he

and Eragon entered the building.

The dingy room felt unsafe. A fire smoldered in the fireplace, yet no one bothered to

throw more wood on it. A few lonely people in the corners nursed their drinks with sullen

expressions. A man missing two fingers sat at a far table, eyeing his twitching stumps.

The bartender had a cynical twist to his lips and held a glass in his hand that he kept

polishing, even though it was broken.

Brom leaned against the bar and asked, “Do you know where we can find a man called

Jeod?” Eragon stood at his side, fiddling with the tip of his bow by his waist. It was slung

across his back, but right then he wished that it were in his hands.

The bartender said in an overly loud voice, “Now, why would I know something like

that? Do you think I keep track of the mangy louts in this forsaken place?” Eragon

winced as all eyes turned toward them.

Brom kept talking smoothly. “Could you be enticed to remember?” He slid some coins

onto the bar.

The man brightened and put his glass down. “Could be,” he replied, lowering his voice,

“but my memory takes a great deal of prodding.” Brom’s face soured, but he slid more

coins onto the bar. The bartender sucked on one side of his cheek undecidedly. “All

right,” he finally said, and reached for the coins.

Before he touched them, the man missing two fingers called out from his table, “Gareth,

what in th’ blazes do you think you’re doing? Anyone on the street could tell them where

Jeod lives. What are you charging them for?”

Brom swept the coins back into his purse. Gareth shot a venomous look at the man at the

table, then turned his back on them and picked up the glass again. Brom went to the

stranger and said, “Thanks. The name’s Neal. This is Evan.”

The man raised his mug to them. “Martin, and of course you met Gareth.” His voice was

deep and rough. Martin gestured at some empty chairs. “Go ahead and sit down. I don’t

mind.” Eragon took a chair and arranged it so his back was to the wall and he faced the

door. Martin raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“You just saved me a few crowns,” said Brom.

“My pleasure. Can’t blame Gareth, though—business hasn’t been doing so well lately.”

Martin scratched his chin. “Jeod lives on the west side of town, right next to Angela, the

herbalist. Do you have business with him?”

“Of a sort,” said Brom.

“Well, he won’t be interested in buying anything; he just lost another ship a few days

ago.”

Brom latched onto the news with interest. “What happened? It wasn’t Urgals, was it?”

“No,” said Martin. “They’ve left the area. No one’s seen ’em in almost a year. It seems

they’ve all gone south and east. But they aren’t the problem. See, most of our business is

through sea trade, as I’m sure you know. Well,” he stopped to drink from his mug,

“starting several months ago, someone’s been attacking our ships. It’s not the usual

piracy, because only ships that carry the goods of certain merchants are attacked. Jeod’s

one of ’em. It’s gotten so bad that no captain will accept those merchants’ goods, which

makes life difficult around here. Especially because some of ’em run the largest shipping

businesses in the Empire. They’re being forced to send goods by land. It’s driven costs

painfully high, and their caravans don’t always make it.”

“Do you have any idea who’s responsible? There must be witnesses,” said Brom.

Martin shook his head. “No one survives the attacks. Ships go out, then disappear;

they’re never seen again.” He leaned toward them and said in a confidential tone, “The

sailors are saying that it’s magic.” He nodded and winked, then leaned back.

Brom seemed worried by his words. “What do you think?”

Martin shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know. And I don’t think I will unless I’m

unfortunate enough to be on one of those captured ships.”

“Are you a sailor?” asked Eragon.

“No,” snorted Martin. “Do I look like one? The captains hire me to defend their ships

against pirates. And those thieving scum haven’t been very active lately. Still, it’s a good

job.”

“But a dangerous one,” said Brom. Martin shrugged again and downed the last of his

beer. Brom and Eragon took their leave and headed to the west side of the city, a nicer

section of Teirm. The houses were clean, ornate, and large. The people in the streets wore

expensive finery and walked with authority. Eragon felt conspicuous and out of place.

ANOLDFRIEND

The herbalist’s shop had a cheery sign and was easy to find. A short, curly-haired

woman sat by the door. She was holding a frog in one hand and writing with the other.

Eragon assumed that she was Angela, the herbalist. On either side of the store was a

house. “Which one do you think is his?” he asked.

Brom deliberated, then said, “Let’s find out.” He approached the woman and asked

politely, “Could you tell us which house Jeod lives in?”

“I could.” She continued writing.

“Will you tell us?”

“Yes.” She fell silent, but her pen scribbled faster than ever. The frog on her hand

croaked and looked at them with baleful eyes. Brom and Eragon waited uncomfortably,

but she said no more. Eragon was about to blurt something out when Angela looked up.

“Of course I’ll tell you! All you have to do is ask. Your first question was whether or not

I could tell you, and the second was if I would tell you. But you never actually put the question to me.”

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

are you holding a frog?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she bantered. “Jeod is on the right. And as for the frog,

he’s actually a toad. I’m trying to prove that toads don’t exist—that there are only frogs.”

“How can toads not exist if you have one on your hand right now?” interrupted Eragon.

“Besides, what good will it do, proving that there are only frogs?”

The woman shook her head vigorously, dark curls bouncing. “No, no, you don’t

understand. If I prove toads don’t exist, then this is a frog and never was a toad.

Therefore, the toad you see now doesn’t exist. And,” she raised a small finger, “if I can

prove there are only frogs, then toads won’t be able to do anything bad—like make teeth

fall out, cause warts, and poison or kill people. Also, witches won’t be able to use any of

their evil spells because, of course, there won’t be any toads around.”

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

we have to meet Jeod.”

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

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

“It’s possible,” said Brom, “but you never know. She might discover something useful,

so don’t criticize. Who knows, toads might really be frogs!”

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

They stopped before a door with a wrought-iron knocker and marble doorstep. Brom

banged three times. No one answered. Eragon felt slightly foolish. “Maybe this is the

wrong house. Let’s try the other one,” he said. Brom ignored him and knocked again,

pounding loudly.

Again no one answered. Eragon turned away in exasperation, then heard someone run to

the door. A young woman with a pale complexion and light blond hair cracked it open.

Her eyes were puffy; it looked like she had been crying, but her voice was perfectly

steady. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Does Jeod live here?” asked Brom kindly.

The woman dipped her head a little. “Yes, he is my husband. Is he expecting you?” She

opened the door no farther.

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

“He is very busy.”

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

Her face hardened. “He is busy.”

Brom bristled, but his voice stayed pleasant. “Since he is unavailable, would you please

give him a message?” Her mouth twitched, but she consented. “Tell him that a friend

from Gil’ead is waiting outside.”

The woman seemed suspicious, but said, “Very well.” She closed the door abruptly.

Eragon heard her footsteps recede.

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

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” snapped Brom. “And don’t say anything. Let me do

the talking.” He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers. Eragon clamped his mouth shut

and looked away.

The door suddenly flew open, and a tall man burst out of the house. His expensive clothes

were rumpled, his gray hair wispy, and he had a mournful face with short eyebrows. A

long scar stretched across his scalp to his temple.

At the sight of them, his eyes grew wide, and he sagged against the doorframe,

speechless. His mouth opened and closed several times like a gasping fish. He asked

softly, in an incredulous voice, “Brom . . . ?”

Brom put a finger to his lips and reached forward, clasping the man’s arm. “It’s good to

see you, Jeod! I’m glad that memory has not failed you, but don’t use that name. It would

be unfortunate if anyone knew I was here.”

Jeod looked around wildly, shock plain on his face. “I thought you were dead,” he

whispered. “What happened? Why haven’t you contacted me before?”

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

Jeod hesitated, swinging his gaze between Eragon and Brom, face unreadable. Finally he

said, “We can’t talk here, but if you wait a moment, I’ll take you somewhere we can.”

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

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

There was a rapier at Jeod’s side when he reappeared. An embroidered jacket hung

loosely on his shoulders, matched by a plumed hat. Brom cast a critical eye at the finery,

and Jeod shrugged self-consciously.

He took them through Teirm toward the citadel. Eragon led the horses behind the two

men. Jeod gestured at their destination. “Risthart, the lord of Teirm, has decreed that all

the business owners must have their headquarters in his castle. Even though most of us

conduct our business elsewhere, we still have to rent rooms there. It’s nonsense, but we

abide by it anyway to keep him calm. We’ll be free of eavesdroppers in there; the walls

are thick.”

They went through the fortress’s main gate and into the keep. Jeod strode to a side door

and pointed to an iron ring. “You can tie the horses there. No one will bother them.”

When Snowfire and Cadoc were safely tethered, he opened the door with an iron key and

let them inside.

Within was a long, empty hallway lit by torches set into the walls. Eragon was surprised

by how cold and damp it was. When he touched the wall, his fingers slid over a layer of

slime. He shivered.

Jeod snatched a torch from its bracket and led them down the hall. They stopped before a

heavy, wooden door. He unlocked it and ushered them into a room dominated by a

bearskin rug laden with stuffed chairs. Bookshelves stacked with leather-bound tomes

covered the walls.

Jeod piled wood in the fireplace, then thrust the torch under it. The fire quickly roared.

“You, old man, have some explaining to do.”

Brom’s face crinkled with a smile. “Who are you calling an old man? The last time I saw

you there was no gray in your hair. Now it looks like it’s in the final stages of

decomposition.”

“And you look the same as you did nearly twenty years ago. Time seems to have

preserved you as a crotchety old man just to inflict wisdom upon each new generation.

Enough of this! Get on with the story. That’s always what you were good at,” said Jeod

impatiently. Eragon’s ears pricked up, and he waited eagerly to hear what Brom would

say.

Brom relaxed into a chair and pulled out his pipe. He slowly blew a smoke ring that

turned green, darted into the fireplace, then flew up the chimney. “Do you remember

what we were doing in Gil’ead?”

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

“An understatement, but true nevertheless,” said Brom dryly. “When we were . . .

separated, I couldn’t find you. In the midst of the turmoil I stumbled into a small room.

There wasn’t anything extraordinary in it—just crates and boxes—but out of curiosity, I

rummaged around anyway. Fortune smiled on me that hour, for I found what we had

been searching for.” An expression of shock ran over Jeod’s face. “Once it was in my

hands, I couldn’t wait for you. At any second I might have been discovered, and all lost.

Disguising myself as best I could, I fled the city and ran to the . . .” Brom hesitated and

glanced at Eragon, then said, “ran to our friends. They stored it in a vault, for

safekeeping, and made me promise to care for whomever received it. Until the day when

my skills would be needed, I had to disappear. No one could know that I was alive—not

even you—though it grieved me to pain you unnecessarily. So I went north and hid in

Carvahall.”

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

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

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I suppose the ruse was unavoidable, though I wish they had told me. Isn’t

Carvahall farther north, on the other side of the Spine?” Brom inclined his head. For the

first time, Jeod inspected Eragon. His gray eyes took in every detail. He raised his

eyebrows and said, “I assume, then, that you are fulfilling your duty.”

Brom shook his head. “No, it’s not that simple. It was stolen a while ago—at least that’s

what I presume, for I haven’t received word from our friends, and I suspect their

messengers were waylaid—so I decided to find out what I could. Eragon happened to be

traveling in the same direction. We have stayed together for a time now.”

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

was—”

Brom overrode him quickly, saying, “Eragon’s uncle was brutally killed by the Ra’zac.

They burned his home and nearly caught him in the process. He deserves revenge, but

they have left us without a trail to follow, and we need help finding them.”

Jeod’s face cleared. “I see. . . . But why have you come here? I don’t know where the

Ra’zac might be hiding, and anyone who does won’t tell you.”

Standing, Brom reached into his robe and pulled out the Ra’zac’s flask. He tossed it to

Jeod. “There’s Seithr oil in there—the dangerous kind. The Ra’zac were carrying it. They

lost it by the trail, and we happened to find it. We need to see Teirm’s shipping records so

we can trace the Empire’s purchases of the oil. That should tell us where the Ra’zac’s lair

is.”

Lines appeared on Jeod’s face as he thought. He pointed at the books on the shelves. “Do

you see those? They are all records from my business. One business. You have gotten

yourself into a project that could take months. There is another, greater problem. The

records you seek are held in this castle, but only Brand, Risthart’s administrator of trade,

sees them on a regular basis. Traders such as myself aren’t allowed to handle them. They

fear that we will falsify the results, thus cheating the Empire of its precious taxes.”

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

before we can think about proceeding.”

Jeod smiled. “It seems that it is my turn to help you. My house is yours, of course. Do

you have another name while you are here?”

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

“Eragon,” said Jeod thoughtfully. “You have a unique name. Few have ever been named

after the first Rider. In my life I’ve read about only three people who were called such.”

Eragon was startled that Jeod knew the origin of his name.

Brom looked at Eragon. “Could you go check on the horses and make sure they’re all

right? I don’t think I tied Snowfire to the ring tightly enough.”

They’re trying to hide something from me. The moment I leave they’re going to talk about

it. Eragon shoved himself out of the chair and left the room, slamming the door shut.

Snowfire had not moved; the knot that held him was fine. Scratching the horses’ necks,

Eragon leaned sullenly against the castle wall.

It’s not fair, he complained to himself. If only I could hear what they are saying. He jolted upright, electrified. Brom had once taught him some words that would enhance his

hearing. Keen ears aren’t exactly what I want, but I should be able to make the words

work. After all, look what I could do with brisingr!

He concentrated intensely and reached for his power. Once it was within his grasp, he

said, “Thverr stenr un atra eka hórna!” and imbued the words with his will. As the power

rushed out of him, he heard a faint whisper in his ears, but nothing more. Disappointed,

he sank back, then started as Jeod said, “—and I’ve been doing that for almost eight years

now.”

Eragon looked around. No one was there except for a few guards standing against the far

wall of the keep. Grinning, he sat on the courtyard and closed his eyes.

“I never expected you to become a merchant,” said Brom. “After all the time you spent in

books. And finding the passageway in that manner! What made you take up trading

instead of remaining a scholar?”

“After Gil’ead, I didn’t have much taste for sitting in musty rooms and reading scrolls. I

decided to help Ajihad as best I could, but I’m no warrior. My father was a merchant as

well—you may remember that. He helped me get started. However, the bulk of my

business is nothing more than a front to get goods into Surda.”

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

“Yes, none of the shipments have gotten through lately, and Tronjheim is running low on

supplies. Somehow the Empire—at least I think it’s them—has discovered those of us

who have been helping to support Tronjheim. But I’m still not convinced that it’s the

Empire. No one sees any soldiers. I don’t understand it. Perhaps Galbatorix hired

mercenaries to harass us.”

“I heard that you lost a ship recently.”

“The last one I owned,” answered Jeod bitterly. “Every man on it was loyal and brave. I

doubt I’ll ever see them again. . . . The only option I have left is to send caravans to Surda

or Gil’ead—which I know won’t get there, no matter how many guards I hire—or charter

someone else’s ship to carry the goods. But no one will take them now.”

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

“Oh, a good number up and down the seaboard. All of them have been plagued by the

same troubles. I know what you are thinking; I’ve pondered it many a night myself, but I

cannot bear the thought of a traitor with that much knowledge and power. If there is one,

we’re all in jeopardy. You should return to Tronjheim.”

“And take Eragon there?” interrupted Brom. “They’d tear him apart. It’s the worst place

he could be right now. Maybe in a few months or, even better, a year. Can you imagine

how the dwarves will react? Everyone will be trying to influence him, especially

Islanzadi. He and Saphira won’t be safe in Tronjheim until I at least get them through

tuatha du orothrim.”

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

“Still, I have a feeling that they are in need of your power and wisdom.”

“Wisdom,” snorted Brom. “I’m just what you said earlier—a crotchety old man.”

“Many would disagree.”

“Let them. I’ve no need to explain myself. No, Ajihad will have to get along without me.

What I’m doing now is much more important. But the prospect of a traitor raises

troubling questions. I wonder if that’s how the Empire knew where to be. . . .” His voice

trailed off.

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

“Maybe they tried. But if there’s a traitor . . .” Brom paused. “I have to send word to

Ajihad. Do you have a messenger you can trust?”

“I think so,” said Jeod. “It depends on where he would have to go.”

“I don’t know,” said Brom. “I’ve been isolated so long, my contacts have probably died

or forgotten me. Could you send him to whoever receives your shipments?”

“Yes, but it’ll be risky.”

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

“He can go in the morning. I’ll send him to Gil’ead. It will be faster,” said Jeod. “What

can he take to convince Ajihad the message comes from you?”

“Here, give your man my ring. And tell him that if he loses it, I’ll personally tear his liver

out. It was given to me by the queen.”

“Aren’t you cheery,” commented Jeod.

Brom grunted. After a long silence he said, “We’d better go out and join Eragon. I get

worried when he’s alone. That boy has an unnatural propensity for being wherever

there’s trouble.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really.”

Eragon heard chairs being pushed back. He quickly pulled his mind away and opened his

eyes. “What’s going on?” he muttered to himself. Jeod and other traders are in trouble

for helping people the Empire doesn’t favor. Brom found something in Gil’ead and went

to Carvahall to hide. What could be so important that he would let his own friend think

he was dead for nearly twenty years? He mentioned a queen—when there aren’t any

queens in the known kingdoms—and dwarves, who, as he himself told me, disappeared

underground long ago.

He wanted answers! But he would not confront Brom now and risk jeopardizing their

mission. No, he would wait until they left Teirm, and then he would persist until the old

man explained his secrets. Eragon’s thoughts were still whirling when the door opened.

“Were the horses all right?” asked Brom.

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

As they reentered the main body of Teirm, Brom said, “So, Jeod, you finally got married.

And,” he winked slyly, “to a lovely young woman. Congratulations.”

Jeod did not seem happy with the compliment. He hunched his shoulders and stared

down at the street. “Whether congratulations are in order is debatable right now. Helen

isn’t very happy.”

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

“The usual,” said Jeod with a resigned shrug. “A good home, happy children, food on the

table, and pleasant company. The problem is that she comes from a wealthy family; her

father has invested heavily in my business. If I keep suffering these losses, there won’t be

enough money for her to live the way she’s used to.”

Jeod continued, “But please, my troubles are not your troubles. A host should never

bother his guests with his own concerns. While you are in my house, I will let nothing

more than an over-full stomach disturb you.”

“Thank you,” said Brom. “We appreciate the hospitality. Our travels have long been

without comforts of any kind. Do you happen to know where we could find an

inexpensive shop? All this riding has worn out our clothes.”

“Of course. That’s my job,” said Jeod, lightening up. He talked eagerly about prices and

stores until his house was in sight. Then he asked, “Would you mind if we went

somewhere else to eat? It might be awkward if you came in right now.”

“Whatever makes you feel comfortable,” said Brom.

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

They did as he suggested, then followed him to a large tavern. Unlike the Green

Chestnut, this one was loud, clean, and full of boisterous people. When the main course

arrived—a stuffed suckling pig—Eragon eagerly dug into the meat, but he especially

savored the potatoes, carrots, turnips, and sweet apples that accompanied it. It had been a

long time since he had eaten much more than wild game.

They lingered over the meal for hours as Brom and Jeod swapped stories. Eragon did not

mind. He was warm, a lively tune jangled in the background, and there was more than

enough food. The spirited tavern babble fell pleasantly on his ears.

When they finally exited the tavern, the sun was nearing the horizon. “You two go ahead;

I have to check on something,” Eragon said. He wanted to see Saphira and make sure that

she was safely hidden.

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

“Wait,” said Jeod. “Are you going outside Teirm?” Eragon hesitated, then reluctantly

nodded. “Make sure you’re inside the walls before dark. The gates close then, and the

guards won’t let you back in until morning.”

“I won’t be late,” promised Eragon. He turned around and loped down a side street,

toward Teirm’s outer wall. Once out of the city, he breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh

air. Saphira! he called. Where are you? She guided him off the road, to the base of a mossy cliff surrounded by maples. He saw her head poke out of the trees on the top and

waved. How am I supposed to get up there?

If you find a clearing, I’ll come down and get you.

No, he said, eyeing the cliff, that won’t be necessary.I’ll just climb up.

It’s too dangerous.

And you worry too much. Let me have some fun.

Eragon pulled off his gloves and started climbing. He relished the physical challenge.

There were plenty of handholds, so the ascent was easy. He was soon high above the

trees. Halfway up, he stopped on a ledge to catch his breath.

Once his strength returned, he stretched up for the next handhold, but his arm was not

long enough. Stymied, he searched for another crevice or ridge to grasp. There was none.

He tried backing down, but his legs could not reach his last foothold. Saphira watched

with unblinking eyes. He gave up and said, I could use some help.

This is your own fault.

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

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

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

You’re right. After all, how can a mere dragon expect to tell a man like yourself what to

do? In fact, everyone should stand in awe of your brilliance of finding the only dead end.

Why, if you had started a few feet in either direction, the path to the top would have been clear. She cocked her head at him, eyes bright.

All right! I made a mistake. Now can you please get me out of here? he pleaded. She

pulled her head back from the edge of the cliff. After a moment he called, “Saphira?”

Above him were only swaying trees. “Saphira! Come back!” he roared.

With a loud crash Saphira barreled off the top of the cliff, flipping around in midair. She

floated down to Eragon like a huge bat and grabbed his shirt with her claws, scratching

his back. He let go of the rocks as she yanked him up in the air. After a brief flight, she

set him down gently on the top of the cliff and tugged her claws out of his shirt.

Foolishness, said Saphira gently.

Eragon looked away, studying the landscape. The cliff provided a wonderful view of

their surroundings, especially the foaming sea, as well as protection against unwelcome

eyes. Only birds would see Saphira here. It was an ideal location.

Is Brom’s friend trustworthy? she asked.

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

of the people around us. They all seem to have secrets.

It is the way of the world. Ignore all the schemes and trust in the nature of each person.

Brom is good. He means us no harm. We don’t have to fear his plans.

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

This finding of the Ra’zac through writing is a strange way of tracking, she

remarked. Would there be a way to use magic to see the records without being inside the

room?

I’m not sure. You would have to combine the word for seeing with distance . . . or maybe light and distance. Either way, it seems rather difficult. I’ll ask Brom.

That would be wise. They lapsed into tranquil silence.

You know, we may have to stay here awhile.

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

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

May that day come quickly.

Eragon smiled and hugged her. He noticed then how rapidly the light was fading. I have

to go now, before I’m locked out of Teirm. Hunt tomorrow, and I will see you in the

evening.

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

thanked her and ran back to Teirm.

He came into sight of the portcullis just as it was beginning to lower. Calling for them to

wait, he put on a burst of speed and slipped inside seconds before the gateway slammed

closed. “Ya cut that a little close,” observed one of the guards.

“It won’t happen again,” assured Eragon, bending over to catch his breath. He wound his

way through the darkened city to Jeod’s house. A lantern hung outside like a beacon.

A plump butler answered his knock and ushered him inside without a word. Tapestries

covered the stone walls. Elaborate rugs dotted the polished wood floor, which glowed

with the light from three gold candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Smoke drifted

through the air and collected above.

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

They passed scores of doorways until the butler opened one to reveal a study. Books

covered the room’s walls. But unlike those in Jeod’s office, these came in every size and

shape. A fireplace filled with blazing logs warmed the room. Brom and Jeod sat before an

oval writing desk, talking amiably. Brom raised his pipe and said in a jovial voice, “Ah,

here you are. We were getting worried about you. How was your walk?”

I wonder what put him in such a good mood? Why doesn’t he just come out and ask how

Saphira is? “Pleasant, but the guards almost locked me outside the city. And Teirm is big.

I had trouble finding this house.”

Jeod chuckled. “When you have seen Dras-Leona, Gil’ead, or even Kuasta, you won’t be

so easily impressed by this small ocean city. I like it here, though. When it’s not raining,

Teirm is really quite beautiful.”

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

Brom spread his palms upward. “That’s hard to tell. It depends on whether we can get to

the records and how long it will take us to find what we need. We’ll all have to help; it

will be a huge job. I’ll talk with Brand tomorrow and see if he’ll let us examine the

records.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course he did,” snorted Brom. “The proud fool—what was he thinking? I should

have realized that he wouldn’t have taught you. He probably considered it an unnecessary

luxury.” Brom scowled and pulled at his beard angrily. “This sets my plans back, but not

irreparably. I’ll just have to teach you how to read. It won’t take long if you put your

mind to it.”

Eragon winced. Brom’s lessons were usually intense and brutally direct. How much more

can I learn at one time? “I suppose it’s necessary,” he said ruefully.

“You’ll enjoy it. There is much you can learn from books and scrolls,” said Jeod. He

gestured at the walls. “These books are my friends, my companions. They make me laugh

and cry and find meaning in life.”

“It sounds intriguing,” admitted Eragon.

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

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

“A what?” asked Eragon.

“One who loves books,” explained Jeod, and resumed conversing with Brom. Bored,

Eragon scanned the shelves. An elegant book set with gold studs caught his attention. He

pulled it off the shelf and stared at it curiously.

It was bound in black leather carved with mysterious runes. Eragon ran his fingers over

the cover and savored its cool smoothness. The letters inside were printed with a reddish

glossy ink. He let the pages slip past his fingers. A column of script, set off from the

regular lettering, caught his eye. The words were long and flowing, full of graceful lines

and sharp points.

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

Brom looked at the page closely and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Jeod, you’ve

expanded your collection. Where did you get this? I haven’t seen one in ages.”

Jeod strained his neck to see the book. “Ah yes, the Domia abr Wyrda. A man came

through here a few years ago and tried to sell it to a trader down by the wharves.

Fortunately, I happened to be there and was able to save the book, along with his neck.

He didn’t have a clue what it was.”

“It’s odd, Eragon, that you should pick up this book, the Dominance of Fate, ” said Brom.

“Of all the items in this house, it’s probably worth the most. It details a complete history

of Alagaësia—starting long before the elves landed here and ending a few decades ago.

The book is very rare and is the best of its kind. When it was written, the Empire decried

it as blasphemy and burned the author, Heslant the Monk. I didn’t think any copies still

existed. The lettering you asked about is from the ancient language.”

“What does it say?” asked Eragon.

It took Brom a moment to read the writing. “It’s part of an elven poem that tells of the

years they fought the dragons. This excerpt describes one of their kings, Ceranthor, as he

rides into battle. The elves love this poem and tell it regularly—though you need three

days to do it properly—so that they won’t repeat the mistakes of the past. At times they

sing it so beautifully it seems the very rocks will cry.”

Eragon returned to his chair, holding the book gently. It’s amazing that a man who is dead

can talk to people through these pages. As long as this book survives, his ideas live. I

wonder if it contains any information about the Ra’zac?

He browsed through the book while Brom and Jeod spoke. Hours passed, and Eragon

began to drowse. Out of pity for his exhaustion, Jeod bid them good night. “The butler

will show you to your rooms.”

On the way upstairs, the servant said, “If you need assistance, use the bellpull next to the

bed.” He stopped before a cluster of three doors, bowed, then backed away.

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

“You just did, but come in anyway.”

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

Brom stopped him with a raised hand and pulled the curtains shut over the window.

“When you talk of such things, you would do well to make sure that no unwelcome ears

are present.”

“Sorry,” said Eragon, berating himself for the slip. “Anyway, is it possible to conjure up

an image of something that you can’t see?”

Brom sat on the edge of his bed. “What you are talking about is called scrying. It is quite

possible and extremely helpful in some situations, but it has a major drawback. You can

only observe people, places, and things that you’ve already seen. If you were to scry the

Ra’zac, you’d see them all right, but not their surroundings. There are other problems as

well. Let’s say that you wanted to view a page in a book, one that you’d already seen.

You could only see the page if the book were open to it. If the book were closed when

you tried this, the page would appear completely black.”

“Why can’t you view objects that you haven’t seen?” asked Eragon. Even with those

limitations, he realized, scrying could be very useful. I wonder if I could view something

leagues away and use magic to affect what was happening there?

“Because,” said Brom patiently, “to scry, you have to know what you’re looking at and

where to direct your power. Even if a stranger was described to you, it would still be nigh

impossible to view him, not to mention the ground and whatever else might be around

him. You have to know what you’re going to scry before you can scry it. Does that answer your question?”

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

air?”

“Not usually,” said Brom, shaking his white head. “That takes more energy than

projecting it onto a reflective surface like a pool of water or a mirror. Some Riders used

to travel everywhere they could, trying to see as much as possible. Then, whenever war

or some other calamity occurred, they would be able to view events throughout

Alagaësia.”

“May I try it?” asked Eragon.

Brom looked at him carefully. “No, not now. You’re tired, and scrying takes lots of

strength. I will tell you the words, but you must promise not to attempt it tonight. And I’d

rather you wait until we leave Teirm; I have more to teach you.”

Eragon smiled. “I promise.”

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

ear.

Eragon took a moment to memorize the words. “Maybe after we’ve left Teirm, I can scry

Roran. I would like to know how he’s doing. I’m afraid that the Ra’zac might go after

him.”

“I don’t mean to frighten you, but that’s a distinct possibility,” said Brom. “Although

Roran was gone most of the time the Ra’zac were in Carvahall, I’m sure that they asked

questions about him. Who knows, they may have even met him while they were in

Therinsford. Either way, I doubt their curiosity is sated. You’re on the loose, after all, and

the king is probably threatening them with terrible punishment if you aren’t found. If they

get frustrated enough, they’ll go back and interrogate Roran. It’s only a matter of time.”

“If that’s true, then the only way to keep Roran safe is to let the Ra’zac know where I am

so that they’ll come after me instead of him.”

“No, that won’t work either. You’re not thinking,” admonished Brom. “If you can’t

understand your enemies, how can you expect to anticipate them? Even if you exposed

your location, the Ra’zac would still chase Roran. Do you know why?”

Eragon straightened and tried to consider every possibility. “Well, if I stay in hiding long

enough, they might get frustrated and capture Roran to force me to reveal myself. If that

didn’t work, they’d kill him just to hurt me. Also, if I become a public enemy of the

Empire, they might use him as bait to catch me. And if I met with Roran and they found

out about it, they would torture him to find out where I was.”

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

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

Brom clasped his hands loosely. “The solution is quite obvious. Roran is going to have to

learn how to defend himself. That may sound hard-hearted, but as you pointed out, you

cannot risk meeting with him. You may not remember this—you were half delirious at

the time—but when we left Carvahall, I told you that I had left a warning letter for Roran

so he won’t be totally unprepared for danger. If he has any sense at all, when the Ra’zac

show up in Carvahall again, he’ll take my advice and flee.”

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

“Ah, but you forget something.”

“What?” he demanded.

“There is some good in all of this. The king cannot afford to have a Rider roaming around

that he does not control. Galbatorix is the only known Rider alive besides yourself, but he

would like another one under his command. Before he tries to kill you or Roran, he will

offer you the chance to serve him. Unfortunately, if he ever gets close enough to make

that proposition, it will be far too late for you to refuse and still live.”

“You call that some good!”

“It’s all that’s protecting Roran. As long as the king doesn’t know which side you’ve

chosen, he won’t risk alienating you by harming your cousin. Keep that firmly in mind.

The Ra’zac killed Garrow, but I think it was an ill-considered decision on their part.

From what I know of Galbatorix, he would not have approved it unless he gained

something from it.”

“And how will I be able to deny the king’s wishes when he is threatening me with

death?” asked Eragon sharply.

Brom sighed. He went to his nightstand and dipped his fingers in a basin of rose water.

“Galbatorix wants your willing cooperation. Without that, you’re worse than useless to

him. So the question becomes, If you are ever faced with this choice, are you willing to

die for what you believe in? For that is the only way you will deny him.”

The question hung in the air.

Brom finally said, “It’s a difficult question and not one you can answer until you’re faced

with it. Keep in mind that many people have died for their beliefs; it’s actually quite

common. The real courage is in living and suffering for what you believe.”

THEWITCH AND

THEWERECAT

It was late in the morning when Eragon woke. He dressed, washed his face in the basin,

then held the mirror up and brushed his hair into place. Something about his reflection

made him stop and look closer. His face had changed since he had run out of Carvahall

just a short while ago. Any baby fat was gone now, stripped away by traveling, sparring,

and training. His cheekbones were more prominent, and the line of his jaw was sharper.

There was a slight cast to his eyes that, when he looked closely, gave his face a wild,

alien appearance. He held the mirror at arm’s length, and his face resumed its normal

semblance—but it still did not seem quite his own.

A little disturbed, he slung his bow and quiver across his back, then left the room. Before

he had reached the end of the hall, the butler caught up with him and said, “Sir, Neal left

with my master for the castle earlier. He said that you could do whatever you want today

because he will not return until this evening.”

Eragon thanked him for the message, then eagerly began exploring Teirm. For hours he

wandered the streets, entering every shop that struck his fancy and chatting with various

people. Eventually he was forced back to Jeod’s by his empty stomach and lack of

money.

When he reached the street where the merchant lived, he stopped at the herbalist’s shop

next door. It was an unusual place for a store. The other shops were down by the city

wall, not crammed between expensive houses. He tried to look in the windows, but they

were covered with a thick layer of crawling plants on the interior. Curious, he went

inside.

At first he saw nothing because the store was so dark, but then his eyes adjusted to the

faint greenish light that filtered through the windows. A colorful bird with wide tail

feathers and a sharp, powerful beak looked at Eragon inquisitively from a cage near the

window. The walls were covered with plants; vines clung to the ceiling, obscuring all but

an old chandelier, and on the floor was a large pot with a yellow flower. A collection of

mortars, pestles, metal bowls, and a clear crystal ball the size of Eragon’s head rested on

a long counter.

He walked to the counter, carefully stepping around complex machines, crates of rocks,

piles of scrolls, and other objects he did not recognize. The wall behind the counter was

covered with drawers of every size. Some of them were no larger than his smallest finger,

while others were big enough for a barrel. There was a foot-wide gap in the shelves far

above.

A pair of red eyes suddenly flashed from the dark space, and a large, fierce cat leapt onto

the counter. It had a lean body with powerful shoulders and oversized paws. A shaggy

mane surrounded its angular face; its ears were tipped with black tufts. White fangs

curved down over its jaw. Altogether, it did not look like any cat Eragon had ever seen. It

inspected him with shrewd eyes, then flicked its tail dismissively.

On a whim, Eragon reached out with his mind and touched the cat’s consciousness.

Gently, he prodded it with his thoughts, trying to make it understand that he was a friend.

You don’t have to do that.

Eragon looked around in alarm. The cat ignored him and licked a paw. Saphira? Where

are you? he asked. No one answered. Puzzled, he leaned against the counter and reached for what looked like a wood rod.

That wouldn’t be wise.

Stop playing games, Saphira, he snapped, then picked up the rod. A shock of electricity exploded through his body, and he fell to the floor, writhing. The pain slowly faded,

leaving him gasping for air. The cat jumped down and looked at him.

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

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

Who else?

But you’re just a cat! he objected.

The cat yowled and stalked back to him. It jumped on his chest and crouched there,

looking down at him with gleaming eyes. Eragon tried to sit up, but it growled, showing

its fangs. Do I look like other cats?

No . . .

Then what makes you think I am one? Eragon started to say something, but the creature

dug its claws into his chest. Obviously your education has been neglected. I—to correct

your mistake—am a werecat. There aren’t many of us left, but I think even a farm boy

should have heard of us.

I didn’t know you were real, said Eragon, fascinated. A werecat! He was indeed fortunate.

They were always flitting around the edges of stories, keeping to themselves and

occasionally giving advice. If the legends were true, they had magical powers, lived

longer than humans, and usually knew more than they told.

The werecat blinked lazily. Knowing is independent of being. I did not know you existed

before you bumbled in here and ruined my nap. Yet that doesn’t mean you weren’t real

before you woke me.

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

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

seconds.

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

A common and boring artifact, unlike myself.

But what’s it for?

Didn’t you find out? The werecat finished cleaning its paw, stretched once more, then

jumped back up to its sleeping place. It sat down, tucked its paws under its breast, and

closed its eyes, purring.

Wait, said Eragon, what’s your name?

One of the werecat’s slanted eyes cracked open. I go by many names. If you are looking

for my proper one, you will have to seek elsewhere. The eye closed. Eragon gave up and turned to leave. However, you may call me Solembum.

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

The door to the shop swung open, letting in a beam of sunlight. Angela entered with a

cloth bag full of plants. Her eyes flickered at Solembum and she looked startled. “He says

you talked with him.”

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

She tossed her head. “Of course, but that doesn’t mean he’ll say anything back.” She set

her plants on the counter, then walked behind it and faced him. “He likes you. That’s

unusual. Most of the time Solembum doesn’t show himself to customers. In fact, he says

that you show some promise, given a few years of work.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a compliment, coming from him. You’re only the third person to come in here who

has been able to speak with him. The first was a woman, many years ago; the second was

a blind beggar; and now you. But I don’t run a store just so I can prattle on. Is there

anything you want? Or did you only come in to look?”

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

any herbs.”

“That’s not all I do,” said Angela with a grin. “The rich fool lords pay me for love

potions and the like. I never claim that they work, but for some reason they keep coming

back. But I don’t think you need those chicaneries. Would you like your fortune told? I

do that, too, for all the rich fool ladies.”

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

any money.”

Angela looked at Solembum curiously. “I think . . .” She gestured at the crystal ball

resting on the counter. “That’s only for show anyway—it doesn’t do anything. But I do

have . . . Wait here; I’ll be right back.” She hurried into a room at the back of the shop.

She came back, breathless, holding a leather pouch, which she set on the counter. “I

haven’t used these for so long, I almost forgot where they were. Now, sit across from me

and I’ll show you why I went to all this trouble.” Eragon found a stool and sat.

Solembum’s eyes glowed from the gap in the drawers.

Angela laid a thick cloth on the counter, then poured a handful of smooth bones, each

slightly longer than a finger, onto it. Runes and symbols were inscribed along their sides.

“These,” she said, touching them gently, “are the knucklebones of a dragon. Don’t ask

where I got them; it is a secret I won’t reveal. But unlike tea leaves, crystal balls, or even

divining cards, these have true power. They do not lie, though understanding what they

say is . . . complicated. If you wish, I will cast and read them for you. But understand that

to know one’s fate can be a terrible thing. You must be sure of your decision.”

Eragon looked at the bones with a feeling of dread. There lies what was once one of

Saphira’s kin. To know one’s fate . . . How can I make this decision when I don’t know

what lies in wait for me and whether I will like it?Ignorance is indeed bliss. “Why do you offer this?” he asked.

“Because of Solembum. He may have been rude, but the fact that he spoke to you makes

you special. He is a werecat, after all. I offered to do this for the other two people who talked with him. Only the woman agreed to it. Selena was her name. Ah, she regretted it,

too. Her fortune was bleak and painful. I don’t think she believed it—not at first.”

Emotion overcame Eragon, bringing tears to his eyes. “Selena,” he whispered to himself.

His mother’s name. Could it have been her? Was her destiny so horrible that she had to

abandon me? “Do you remember anything about her fortune?” he asked, feeling sick.

Angela shook her head and sighed. “It was so long ago that the details have melted into

the rest of my memory, which isn’t as good as it used to be. Besides, I’ll not tell you what

I do remember. That was for her and her alone. It was sad, though; I’ve never forgotten

the look on her face.”

Eragon closed his eyes and struggled to regain control of his emotions. “Why do you

complain about your memory?” he asked to distract himself. “You’re not that old.”

Dimples appeared on Angela’s cheeks. “I’m flattered, but don’t be deceived; I’m much

older than I look. The appearance of youth probably comes from having to eat my own

herbs when times are lean.”

Smiling, Eragon took a deep breath. If that was my mother and she could bear to have her

fortune told, I can too. “Cast the bones for me,” he said solemnly.

Angela’s face became grave as she grasped the bones in each hand. Her eyes closed, and

her lips moved in a soundless murmur. Then she said powerfully, “Manin! Wyrda!

Hugin!” and tossed the bones onto the cloth. They fell all jumbled together, gleaming in the faint light.

The words rang in Eragon’s ears; he recognized them from the ancient language and

realized with apprehension that to use them for magic, Angela must be a witch. She had

not lied; this was a true fortunetelling. Minutes slowly passed as she studied the bones.

Finally, Angela leaned back and heaved a long sigh. She wiped her brow and pulled out a

wineskin from under the counter. “Do you want some?” she asked. Eragon shook his

head. She shrugged and drank deeply. “This,” she said, wiping her mouth, “is the hardest

reading I’ve ever done. You were right. Your future is nigh impossible to see. I’ve never

known of anyone’s fate being so tangled and clouded. I was, however, able to wrestle a

few answers from it.”

Solembum jumped onto the counter and settled there, watching them both. Eragon

clenched his hands as Angela pointed to one of the bones. “I will start here,” she said

slowly, “because it is the clearest to understand.”

The symbol on the bone was a long horizontal line with a circle resting on it. “Infinity or

long life,” said Angela quietly. “This is the first time I have ever seen it come up in

someone’s future. Most of the time it’s the aspen or the elm, both signs that a person will

live a normal span of years. Whether this means that you will live forever or that you will

only have an extraordinarily long life, I’m not sure. Whatever it foretells, you may be

sure that many years lie ahead of you.”

No surprises there—I am a Rider, thought Eragon. Was Angela only going to tell him

things he already knew?

“Now the bones grow harder to read, as the rest are in a confused pile.” Angela touched

three of them. “Here the wandering path, lightning bolt, and sailing ship all lie together—

a pattern I’ve never seen, only heard of. The wandering path shows that there are many

choices in your future, some of which you face even now. I see great battles raging

around you, some of them fought for your sake. I see the mighty powers of this land

struggling to control your will and destiny. Countless possible futures await you—all of

them filled with blood and conflict—but only one will bring you happiness and peace.

Beware of losing your way, for you are one of the few who are truly free to choose their

own fate. That freedom is a gift, but it is also a responsibility more binding than chains.”

Then her face grew sad. “And yet, as if to counteract that, here is the lightning bolt. It is a terrible omen. There is a doom upon you, but of what sort I know not. Part of it lies in a

death—one that rapidly approaches and will cause you much grief. But the rest awaits in

a great journey. Look closely at this bone. You can see how its end rests on that of the

sailing ship. That is impossible to misunderstand. Your fate will be to leave this land

forever. Where you will end up I know not, but you will never again stand in Alagaësia.

This is inescapable. It will come to pass even if you try to avoid it.”

Her words frightened Eragon. Another death . . . who must I lose now? His thoughts

immediately went to Roran. Then he thought about his homeland. What could ever force

me to leave?And where would I go? If there are lands across the sea or to the east, only

the elves know of them.

Angela rubbed her temples and breathed deeply. “The next bone is easier to read and

perhaps a bit more pleasant.” Eragon examined it and saw a rose blossom inscribed

between the horns of a crescent moon.

Angela smiled and said, “An epic romance is in your future, extraordinary, as the moon

indicates—for that is a magical symbol—and strong enough to outlast empires. I cannot

say if this passion will end happily, but your love is of noble birth and heritage. She is

powerful, wise, and beautiful beyond compare.”

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

“Now for the last two bones, the tree and the hawthorn root, which cross each other

strongly. I wish that this were not so—it can only mean more trouble—but betrayal is

clear. And it will come from within your family.”

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

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

what they say.”

Doubt wormed into Eragon’s mind, but he tried to ignore it. What reason would there

ever be for Roran to turn on him? Angela put a comforting hand on his shoulder and

offered him the wineskin again. This time Eragon accepted the drink, and it made him

feel better.

“After all that, death might be welcome,” he joked nervously. Betrayal from Roran? It

couldn’t happen! It won’t!

“It might be,” said Angela solemnly, then laughed slightly. “But you shouldn’t fret about

what has yet to occur. The only way the future can harm us is by causing worry. I

guarantee that you’ll feel better once you’re out in the sun.”

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

Angela’s eyes flashed. “What I wouldn’t give to see how the rest of your life plays out.

You can speak to werecats, know of the ancient language, and have a most interesting

future. Also, few young men with empty pockets and rough traveling clothes can expect

to be loved by a noblewoman. Who are you?”

Eragon realized that the werecat must not have told Angela that he was a Rider. He

almost said, “Evan,” but then changed his mind and simply stated, “I am Eragon.”

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

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

“Now I’m all the more interested in seeing how your life will unfold. Who was the

ragged man with you yesterday?”

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

A guffaw suddenly burst out of Angela, doubling her over in mirth. She wiped her eyes

and took a sip of wine, then fought off another attack of merriment. Finally, gasping for

breath, she forced out, “Oh . . . that one! I had no idea!”

“What is it?” demanded Eragon.

“No, no, don’t be upset,” said Angela, hiding a smile. “It’s only that—well, he is known

by those in my profession. I’m afraid that the poor man’s doom, or future if you will, is

something of a joke with us.”

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

“Peace, peace,” chided Angela with amusement. “I know that. If we meet again at the

right time I’ll be sure to tell you about it. But in the meantime you should—” She stopped

speaking as Solembum padded between them. The werecat stared at Eragon with

unblinking eyes.

Yes? Eragon asked, irritated.

Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the time comes and you need a

weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your

power is insufficient, go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of

Souls.

Before Eragon could ask what Solembum meant, the werecat walked away, waving his

tail ever so gracefully. Angela tilted her head, coils of dense hair shadowing her forehead.

“I don’t know what he said, and I don’t want to know. He spoke to you and only you.

Don’t tell anyone else.”

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

“If you want to,” said Angela, smiling again. “You are welcome to stay here as long as

you like, especially if you buy some of my goods. But go if you wish; I’m sure that we’ve

given you enough to ponder for a while.”

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

think.

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

Eragon exited the shop and stood in the street, squinting until his eyes adjusted to the

brightness. It was a few minutes before he could think calmly about what he had learned.

He started walking, his steps unconsciously quickening until he dashed out of Teirm, feet

flying as he headed to Saphira’s hiding place.

He called to her from the base of the cliff. A minute later she soared down and bore him

up to the cliff top. When they were both safely on the ground, Eragon told her about his

day. And so, he concluded, I think Brom’s right; I always seem to be where there’s trouble.

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

How do you know? he asked curiously.

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

Do you think I should tell Brom?

It’s your choice, but think of this: he has no right to know your future. To tell him of

Solembum and his words will only raise questions you may not want to answer. And if

you decided to only ask him what those words mean, he will want to know where you

learned them. Do you think you can lie convincingly to him?

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

companionably, watching the trees until dusk.

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

asked the butler.

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

“Thank you,” said Eragon. He strode to the room and peeked inside. Brom was sitting

before the fire, smoking. “How did it go?” asked Eragon.

“Bloody awful!” growled Brom around his pipe.

“So you talked to Brand?”

“Not that it did any good. This administrator of trade is the worst sort of bureaucrat. He abides by every rule, delights in making his own whenever it can inconvenience

someone, and at the same time believes that he’s doing good.”

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

“No,” snapped Brom, exasperated. “Nothing I could say would sway him. He even

refused bribes! Substantial ones, too. I didn’t think I would ever meet a noble who wasn’t

corrupt. Now that I have, I find that I prefer them when they’re greedy bastards.” He

puffed furiously on his pipe and mumbled a steady stream of curses.

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

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

“And after that?”

A smile split Brom’s face. “After that, we’re going to give Brand a nasty surprise.”

Eragon pestered him for details, but Brom refused to say more.

Dinner was held in a sumptuous dining room. Jeod sat at one end of the table, a hard-

eyed Helen at the other. Brom and Eragon were seated between them, which Eragon felt

was a dangerous place to be. Empty chairs were on either side of him, but he didn’t mind

the space. It helped to protect him from the glares of their hostess.

The food was served quietly, and Jeod and Helen wordlessly began eating. Eragon

followed suit, thinking, I’ve had cheerier meals at funerals. And he had, in Carvahall. He remembered many burials that had been sad, yes, but not unduly so. This was different;

he could feel simmering resentment pouring from Helen throughout the dinner.

OFREADING ANDPLOTS

Brom scratched a rune on parchment with charcoal, then showed it to Eragon. “This is

the letter a, ” he said. “Learn it.”

With that, Eragon began the task of becoming literate. It was difficult and strange and

pushed his intellect to its limits, but he enjoyed it. Without anything else to do and with a

good—if sometimes impatient—teacher, he advanced rapidly.

A routine was soon established. Every day Eragon got up, ate in the kitchen, then went to

the study for his lessons, where he labored to memorize the sounds of the letters and the

rules of writing. It got so that when he closed his eyes, letters and words danced in his

mind. He thought of little else during that time.

Before dinner, he and Brom would go behind Jeod’s house and spar. The servants, along

with a small crowd of wide-eyed children, would come and watch. If there was any time

afterward, Eragon would practice magic in his room, with the curtains securely closed.

His only worry was Saphira. He visited her every evening, but it was not enough time

together for either of them. During the day, Saphira spent most of her time leagues away

searching for food; she could not hunt near Teirm without arousing suspicion. Eragon did

what he could to help her, but he knew that the only solution for both her hunger and

loneliness was to leave the city far behind.

Every day more grim news poured into Teirm. Arriving merchants told of horrific attacks

along the coast. There were reports of powerful people disappearing from their houses in

the night and their mangled corpses being discovered in the morning. Eragon often heard

Brom and Jeod discussing the events in an undertone, but they always stopped when he

came near.

The days passed quickly, and soon a week had gone by. Eragon’s skills were

rudimentary, but he could now read whole pages without asking Brom’s help. He read

slowly, but he knew that speed would come with time. Brom encouraged him, “No

matter, you’ll do fine for what I have planned.”

It was afternoon when Brom summoned both Jeod and Eragon to the study. Brom

gestured at Eragon. “Now that you can help us, I think it’s time to move ahead.”

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

A fierce smile danced on Brom’s face. Jeod groaned. “I know that look; it’s what got us

into trouble in the first place.”

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

do. . . .”

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

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

Eragon shrugged. I don’t know. We may end up fleeing Teirm with soldiers on our heels.

He felt her worry and tried to reassure her. It’ll be all right. Brom and I can use magic,

and we’re good fighters.

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. His hands shook slightly, and there was a

lump in his throat. As sleep overcame him, he felt a wave of confusion. I don’t want to

leave Teirm, he suddenly realized. The time I’ve spent here has been—almost normal.

What I would give not to keep uprooting myself. To stay here and be like everyone else

would be wonderful. Then, another thought raged through him, But I’ll never be able to while Saphira is around. Never.

Dreams owned his consciousness, twisting and directing it to their whims. At times he

quaked with fear; at others he laughed with pleasure. Then something changed—it was as

though his eyes had been opened for the first time—and a dream came to him that was

clearer than any before.

He saw a young woman, bent over by sorrow, chained in a cold, hard cell. A beam of

moonlight shone through a barred window set high in the wall and fell on her face. A

single tear rolled down her cheek, like a liquid diamond.

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

a fitful sleep.

THIEVES IN THECASTLE

Eragon woke from his nap to a golden sunset. Red and orange beams of light streamed

into the room and fell across the bed. They warmed his back pleasantly, making him

reluctant to move. He dozed, but the sunlight crept off him, and he grew cold. The sun

sank below the horizon, lighting the sea and sky with color. Almost time!

He slung his bow and quiver on his back, but left Zar’roc in the room; the sword would

only slow him, and he was averse to using it. If he had to disable someone, he could use

magic or an arrow. He pulled his jerkin over his shirt and laced it securely.

He waited nervously in his room until the light faded. Then he entered the hallway and

shrugged so the quiver settled comfortably across his back. Brom joined him, carrying his

sword and staff.

Jeod, dressed in a black doublet and hose, was waiting for them outside. From his waist

swung an elegant rapier and a leather pouch. Brom eyed the rapier and observed, “That

toad sticker is too thin for any real fighting. What will you do if someone comes after you

with a broadsword or a flamberge?”

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

Brom shrugged. “It’s your neck.”

They walked casually along the street, avoiding watchmen and soldiers. Eragon was tense

and his heart pounded. As they passed Angela’s shop, a flash of movement on the roof

caught his attention, but he saw no one. His palm tingled. He looked at the roof again, but

it was still empty.

Brom led them along Teirm’s outer wall. By the time they reached the castle, the sky was

black. The sealed walls of the fortress made Eragon shiver. He would hate to be

imprisoned there. Jeod silently took the lead and strode up to the gates, trying to look at

ease. He pounded on the gate and waited.

A small grille slid open and a surly guard peered out. “Ya?” he grunted shortly. Eragon

could smell rum on his breath.

“We need to get in,” said Jeod.

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

“The boy here left something very valuable in my office. We have to retrieve it

immediately.” Eragon hung his head, shamefaced.

The guard frowned, clearly impatient to get back to his bottle. “Ah, wha’ever,” he said,

swinging his arm. “Jus’ make sure ’n give ’im a good beating f’r me.”

“I’ll do that,” assured Jeod as the guard unbolted a small door set into the gate. They

entered the keep, then Brom handed the guard a few coins.

“Thank’ee,” mumbled the man, tottering away. As soon as he was gone, Eragon pulled

his bow from its tube and strung it. Jeod quickly let them into the main part of the castle.

They hurried toward their destination, listening carefully for any soldiers on patrol. At the

records room, Brom tried the door. It was locked. He put his hand against the door and

muttered a word that Eragon did not recognize. It swung open with a faint click. Brom

grabbed a torch from the wall, and they darted inside, closing the door quietly.

The squat room was filled with wooden racks piled high with scrolls. A barred window

was set in the far wall. Jeod threaded his way between the racks, running his eyes over

the scrolls. He halted at the back of the room. “Over here,” he said. “These are the

shipping records for the past five years. You can tell the date by the wax seals on the

corner.”

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

being discovered.

“Start at the top and work down,” said Jeod. “Some scrolls only deal with taxes. You can

ignore those. Look for anything that mentions Seithr oil.” He took a length of parchment

from his pouch and stretched it out on the floor, then set a bottle of ink and a quill pen

next to it. “So we can keep track of whatever we find,” he explained.

Brom scooped an armful of scrolls from the top of the rack and piled them on the floor.

He sat and unrolled the first one. Eragon joined him, positioning himself so he could see

the door. The tedious work was especially difficult for him, as the cramped script on the

scrolls was different from the printing Brom had taught him.

By looking only for the names of ships that sailed in the northern areas, they winnowed

out many of the scrolls. Even so, they moved down the rack slowly, recording each

shipment of Seithr oil as they located it.

It was quiet outside the room, except for the occasional watchman. Suddenly, Eragon’s

neck prickled. He tried to keep working, but the uneasy feeling remained. Irritated, he

looked up and jerked with surprise—a small boy crouched on the windowsill. His eyes

were slanted, and a sprig of holly was woven into his shaggy black hair.

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

sounded like Solembum.

Is that you? he asked incredulously.

Am I someone else?

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

The boy smiled slightly, revealing pointed teeth. What I look like doesn’t change who I

am. You don’t think I’m called a werecat for nothing, do you?

What are you doing here? Eragon asked.

The werecat tilted his head and considered whether the question was worth an

answer. That depends on what you are doing here. If you are reading those scrolls for

entertainment, then I suppose there isn’t any reason for my visit. But if what you are

doing is unlawful and you don’t want to be discovered, I might be here to warn you that

the guard whom you bribed just told his replacement about you and that this second

official of the Empire has sent soldiers to search for you.

Thank you for telling me, said Eragon.

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

The boy stood and tossed back his wild hair. Eragon asked quickly, What did you mean

last time about the tree and the vault?

Exactly what I said.

Eragon tried to ask more, but the werecat vanished through the window. He announced

abruptly, “There are soldiers looking for us.”

“How do you know?” asked Brom sharply.

“I listened in on the guard. His replacement just sent men to search for us. We have to get

out of here. They’ve probably already discovered that Jeod’s office is empty.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jeod.

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

Brom snatched another scroll from the rack. “No matter. We have to finish this now!”

They worked furiously for the next minute, scanning the records as fast as they could. As

the last scroll was finished, Brom threw it back onto the rack, and Jeod jammed his

parchment, ink, and pen into his pouch. Eragon grabbed the torch.

They raced from the room and shut the door, but just as it closed they heard the heavy

tramp of soldiers’ boots at the end of the hall. They turned to leave, but Brom hissed

furiously, “Damnation! It’s not locked.” He put his hand against the door. The lock

clicked at the same time three armed soldiers came into view.

“Hey! Get away from that door!” shouted one of them. Brom stepped back, assuming a

surprised expression. The three men marched up to them. The tallest one demanded,

“Why are you trying to get into the records?” Eragon gripped his bow tighter and

prepared to run.

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

rolled down his neck.

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

men.

Eragon held his breath as the soldier stepped up to the door, tried to open it, then pounded

on it with his mailed fist. “It’s locked, sir.”

The leader scratched his chin. “Ar’right, then. I don’t know what you were up to, but as

long as the door’s locked, I guess you’re free to go. Come on.” The soldiers surrounded

them and marched them back to the keep.

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

At the main gates, the soldier pointed and said, “Now, you walk through those and don’t

try anything. We’ll be watching. If you have to come back, wait until morning.”

“Of course,” promised Jeod.

Eragon could feel the guards’ eyes boring into their backs as they hurried out of the

castle. The moment that the gates closed behind them, a triumphant grin stretched across

his face, and he jumped into the air. Brom shot him a cautioning look and growled,

“Walk back to the house normally. You can celebrate there.”

Chastised, Eragon adopted a staid demeanor, but inside he still bubbled with energy.

Once they had hurried back to the house and into the study, Eragon exclaimed, “We did

it!”

“Yes, but now we have to figure out if it was worth the trouble,” said Brom. Jeod took a

map of Alagaësia from the shelves and unrolled it on the desk.

On the left side of the map, the ocean extended to the unknown west. Along the coast

stretched the Spine, an immense length of mountains. The Hadarac Desert filled the

center of the map—the east end was blank. Somewhere in that void hid the Varden. To

the south was Surda, a small country that had seceded from the Empire after the Riders’

fall. Eragon had been told that Surda secretly supported the Varden.

Near Surda’s eastern border was a mountain range labeled Beor Mountains. Eragon had

heard of them in many stories—they were supposed to be ten times the height of the

Spine, though he privately believed that was exaggeration. The map was empty to the

east of the Beors.

Five islands rested off the coast of Surda: Nía, Parlim, Uden, Illium, and Beirland. Nía

was no more than an outcropping of rock, but Beirland, the largest, had a small town.

Farther up, near Teirm, was a jagged island called Sharktooth. And high to the north was

one more island, immense and shaped like a knobby hand. Eragon knew its name without

even looking: Vroengard, the ancestral home of the Riders—once a place of glory, but

now a looted, empty shell haunted by strange beasts. In the center of Vroengard was the

abandoned city of Dorú Areaba.

Carvahall was a small dot at the top of Palancar Valley. Level with it, but across the

plains, sprawled the forest Du Weldenvarden. Like the Beor Mountains, its eastern end

was unmapped. Parts of Du Weldenvarden’s western edge had been settled, but its heart

lay mysterious and unexplored. The forest was wilder than the Spine; the few who braved

its depths often came back raving mad, or not at all.

Eragon shivered as he saw Urû’baen in the center of the Empire. King Galbatorix ruled

from there with his black dragon, Shruikan, by his side. Eragon put his finger on

Urû’baen. “The Ra’zac are sure to have a hiding place here.”

“You had better hope that that isn’t their only sanctuary,” said Brom flatly. “Otherwise

you’ll never get near them.” He pushed the rustling map flat with his wrinkled hands.

Jeod took the parchment out of his pouch and said, “From what I saw in the records, there

have been shipments of Seithr oil to every major city in the Empire over the past five

years. As far as I can tell, all of them might have been ordered by wealthy jewelers. I’m

not sure how we can narrow down the list without more information.”

Brom swept a hand over the map. “I think we can eliminate some cities. The Ra’zac have

to travel wherever the king wants, and I’m sure he keeps them busy. If they’re expected

to go anywhere at anytime, the only reasonable place for them to stay is at a crossroads

where they can reach every part of the country fairly easily.” He was excited now and

paced the room. “This crossroads has to be large enough so the Ra’zac will be

inconspicuous. It also has to have enough trade so any unusual requests—special food for

their mounts, for example—will go unnoticed.”

“That makes sense,” said Jeod, nodding. “Under those conditions, we can ignore most of

the cities in the north. The only big ones are Teirm, Gil’ead, and Ceunon. I know they’re

not in Teirm, and I doubt that the oil has been shipped farther up the coast to Narda—it’s

too small. Ceunon is too isolated . . . only Gil’ead remains.”

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

“It would at that,” Jeod acknowledged softly.

“What about southern cities?” asked Eragon.

“Well,” said Jeod. “There’s obviously Urû’baen, but that’s an unlikely destination. If

someone were to die from Seithr oil in Galbatorix’s court, it would be all too easy for an

earl or some other lord to discover that the Empire had been buying large amounts of it.

That still leaves many others, any one of which could be the one we want.”

“Yes,” said Eragon, “but the oil wasn’t sent to all of them. The parchment only lists

Kuasta, Dras-Leona, Aroughs, and Belatona. Kuasta wouldn’t work for the Ra’zac; it’s

on the coast and surrounded by mountains. Aroughs is isolated like Ceunon, though it is a

center of trade. That leaves Belatona and Dras-Leona, which are rather close together. Of

the two, I think Dras-Leona is the likelier. It’s larger and better situated.”

“And that’s where nearly all the goods of the Empire pass through at one time or another,

including Teirm’s,” said Jeod. “It would be a good place for the Ra’zac to hide.”

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

show?”

Jeod looked at the parchment. “Here it is. At the beginning of the year, three shipments of

Seithr oil were sent to Dras-Leona. Each shipment was only two weeks apart, and the

records say they were all transported by the same merchant. The same thing happened

last year and the year before that. I doubt any one jeweler, or even a group of them, has

the money for so much oil.”

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

“It doesn’t have the same access to the rest of the Empire. And,” Jeod tapped the

parchment, “they’ve only received the oil twice in recent years.” He thought for a

moment, then said, “Besides, I think we forgot something—Helgrind.”

Brom nodded. “Ah yes, the Dark Gates. It’s been many years since I’ve thought of it.

You’re right, that would make Dras-Leona perfect for the Ra’zac. I guess it’s decided,

then; that’s where we’ll go.”

Eragon sat abruptly, too drained of emotion to even ask what Helgrind was. I thought I

would be happy to resume the hunt. Instead, I feel like an abyss has opened up before me.

Dras-Leona! It’s so far away. . . .

The parchment crackled as Jeod slowly rolled up the map. He handed it to Brom and said,

“You’ll need this, I’m afraid. Your expeditions often take you into obscure regions.”

Nodding, Brom accepted the map. Jeod clapped him on the shoulder. “It doesn’t feel

right that you will leave without me. My heart expects to go along, but the rest of me

reminds me of my age and responsibilities.”

“I know,” said Brom. “But you have a life in Teirm. It is time for the next generation to

take up the standard. You’ve done your part; be happy.”

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

A hollow laugh escaped Brom’s lips. “I see it coming, but not for a while.” He

extinguished his pipe, and they left for their rooms, exhausted. Before he fell asleep,

Eragon contacted Saphira to relate the night’s adventures.

ACOSTLYMISTAKE

In the morning Eragon and Brom retrieved their saddlebags from the stable and prepared

to depart. Jeod greeted Brom while Helen watched from the doorway. With grave looks,

the two men clasped hands. “I’ll miss you, old man,” said Jeod.

“And you I,” said Brom thickly. He bowed his white head and then turned to Helen.

“Thank you for your hospitality; it was most gracious.” Her face reddened. Eragon

thought she was going to slap him. Brom continued, unperturbed, “You have a good

husband; take care of him. There are few men as brave and as determined as he is. But

even he cannot weather difficult times without support from those he loves.” He bowed

again and said gently, “Only a suggestion, dear lady.”

Eragon watched as indignation and hurt crossed Helen’s face. Her eyes flashed as she

shut the door brusquely. Sighing, Jeod ran his fingers through his hair. Eragon thanked

him for all his help, then mounted Cadoc. With the last farewells said, he and Brom

departed.

At Teirm’s south gate, the guards let them through without a second glance. As they rode

under the giant outer wall, Eragon saw movement in a shadow. Solembum was crouched

on the ground, tail twitching. The werecat followed them with inscrutable eyes. As the

city receded into the distance, Eragon asked, “What are werecats?”

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

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

pretending ignorance.

“They are quite real. During the Riders’ years of glory, they were as renowned as the

dragons. Kings and elves kept them as companions—yet the werecats were free to do

what they chose. Very little has ever been known about them. I’m afraid that their race

has become rather scarce recently.”

“Could they use magic?” asked Eragon.

“No one’s sure, but they could certainly do unusual things. They always seemed to know

what was going on and somehow or another manage to get themselves involved.” Brom

pulled his hood up to block a chill wind.

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

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

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

Saphira answered and sped toward them with all of her strength. Eragon and Brom

watched as a dark blur rushed from a cloud, then heard a dull roar as Saphira’s wings

flared open. The sun shone behind the thin membranes, turning them translucent and

silhouetting the dark veins. She landed with a blast of air.

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

Brom nodded, but seemed preoccupied. “Have a good time,” he said, then looked at

Saphira and smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

And you too.

Eragon hopped onto Saphira’s shoulders and held on tightly as she bounded upward.

With the wind at her tail, Saphira sliced through the air. Hold on, she warned Eragon, and letting out a wild bugle, she soared in a great loop. Eragon yelled with excitement as he

flung his arms in the air, holding on only with his legs.

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

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

By noon his legs were sore from riding bareback, and his hands and face were numb from

the cold air. Saphira’s scales were always warm to the touch, but she could not keep him

from getting chilled. When they landed for lunch, he buried his hands in his clothes and

found a warm, sunny place to sit. As he and Brom ate, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you

mind if I ride Cadoc? He had decided to question Brom further about his past.

No, but tell me what he says. Eragon was not surprised that Saphira knew his plans. It was nearly impossible to hide anything from her when they were mentally linked. When they

finished eating, she flew away as he joined Brom on the trail. After a time, Eragon

slowed Cadoc and said, “I need to talk to you. I wanted to do it when we first arrived in

Teirm, but I decided to wait until now.”

“About what?” asked Brom.

Eragon paused. “There’s a lot going on that I don’t understand. For instance, who are

your ‘friends,’ and why were you hiding in Carvahall? I trust you with my life—which is

why I’m still traveling with you—but I need to know more about who you are and what

you are doing. What did you steal in Gil’ead, and what is the tuatha du orothrim that

you’re taking me through? I think that after all that’s happened, I deserve an

explanation.”

“You eavesdropped on us.”

“Only once,” said Eragon.

“I see that you have yet to learn proper manners,” said Brom grimly, tugging on his

beard. “What makes you think that this concerns you?”

“Nothing, really,” said Eragon shrugging. “Just it’s an odd coincidence that you

happened to be hiding in Carvahall when I found Saphira’s egg and that you also know so much dragonlore. The more I think about it, the less likely it seems. There were other

clues that I mostly ignored, but they’re obvious now that I look back. Like how you knew

of the Ra’zac in the first place and why they ran away when you approached. And I can’t

help but wonder if you had something to do with the appearance of Saphira’s egg.

There’s a lot you haven’t told us, and Saphira and I can’t afford to ignore anything that

might be dangerous.”

Dark lines appeared on Brom’s forehead as he reined Snowfire to a halt. “You won’t

wait?” he asked. Eragon shook his head mulishly. Brom sighed. “This wouldn’t be a

problem if you weren’t so suspicious, but I suppose that you wouldn’t be worth my time

if you were otherwise.” Eragon was unsure if he should take that as a compliment. Brom

lit his pipe and slowly blew a plume of smoke into the air. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “but

you have to understand that I cannot reveal everything.” Eragon started to protest, but

Brom cut him off. “It’s not out of a desire to withhold information, but because I won’t

give away secrets that aren’t mine. There are other stories woven in with this narrative.

You’ll have to talk with the others involved to find out the rest.”

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

“Are you sure?” asked Brom. “There are reasons for my secretiveness. I’ve tried to

protect you by shielding you from forces that would tear you apart. Once you know of

them and their purposes, you’ll never have the chance to live quietly. You will have to

choose sides and make a stand. Do you really want to know?”

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

“A worthy goal. . . . Very well: there is a war raging in Alagaësia between the Varden

and the Empire. Their conflict, however, reaches far beyond any incidental armed

clashes. They are locked in a titanic power struggle . . . centered around you.”

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

either of them.”

“Not yet,” said Brom, “but your very existence is the focus of their battles. The Varden

and the Empire aren’t fighting to control this land or its people. Their goal is to control

the next generation of Riders, of whom you are the first. Whoever controls these Riders

will become the undisputed master of Alagaësia.”

Eragon tried to absorb Brom’s statements. It seemed incomprehensible that so many

people would be interested in him and Saphira. No one besides Brom had thought he was

that important. The whole concept of the Empire and Varden fighting over him was too

abstract for him to grasp fully. Objections quickly formed in his mind. “But all the Riders

were killed except for the Forsworn, who joined Galbatorix. As far as I know, even those

are now dead. And you told me in Carvahall that no one knows if there are still dragons

in Alagaësia.”

“I lied about the dragons,” said Brom flatly. “Even though the Riders are gone, there are

still three dragon eggs left—all of them in Galbatorix’s possession. Actually there are

only two now, since Saphira hatched. The king salvaged the three during his last great

battle with the Riders.”

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

with a sinking feeling.

“Exactly,” said Brom. “There is a deadly race in progress. Galbatorix is desperately

trying to find the people for whom his eggs will hatch, while the Varden are employing

every means to kill his candidates or steal the eggs.”

“But where did Saphira’s egg come from? How could anyone have gotten it away from

the king? And why do you know all of this?” asked Eragon, bewildered.

“So many questions,” laughed Brom bitterly. “There is another chapter to all this, one

that took place long before you were born. Back then I was a bit younger, though perhaps

not as wise. I hated the Empire—for reasons I’ll keep to myself—and wanted to damage

it in any way I could. My fervor led me to a scholar, Jeod, who claimed to have

discovered a book that showed a secret passageway into Galbatorix’s castle. I eagerly

brought Jeod to the Varden—who are my ‘friends’—and they arranged to have the eggs

stolen.”

The Varden!

“However, something went amiss, and our thief got only one egg. For some reason he

fled with it and didn’t return to the Varden. When he wasn’t found, Jeod and I were sent

to bring him and the egg back.” Brom’s eyes grew distant, and he spoke in a curious

voice. “That was the start of one of the greatest searches in history. We raced against the

Ra’zac and Morzan, last of the Forsworn and the king’s finest servant.”

“Morzan!” interrupted Eragon. “But he was the one who betrayed the Riders to

Galbatorix!” And that happened so long ago! Morzan must have been ancient. It disturbed him to be reminded of how long Riders lived.

“So?” asked Brom, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, he was old, but strong and cruel. He was

one of the king’s first followers and by far his most loyal. As there had been blood

between us before, the hunt for the egg turned into a personal battle. When it was located

in Gil’ead, I rushed there and fought Morzan for possession. It was a terrible contest, but

in the end I slew him. During the conflict I was separated from Jeod. There was no time

to search for him, so I took the egg and bore it to the Varden, who asked me to train

whomever became the new Rider. I agreed and decided to hide in Carvahall—which I

had been to several times before—until the Varden contacted me. I was never

summoned.”

“Then how did Saphira’s egg appear in the Spine? Was another one stolen from the

king?” asked Eragon.

Brom grunted. “Small chance of that. He has the remaining two guarded so thoroughly

that it would be suicide to try and steal them. No, Saphira was taken from the Varden,

and I think I know how. To protect the egg, its guardian must have tried to send it to me

with magic.

“The Varden haven’t contacted me to explain how they lost the egg, so I suspect that

their runners were intercepted by the Empire and the Ra’zac were sent in their place. I’m

sure they were quite eager to find me, as I’ve managed to foil many of their plans.”

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

with wonder.

“That’s right,” replied Brom. “If that ass Sloan had kept his mouth shut, they might not

have found out about you. Events could have turned out quite differently. In a way I have

you to thank for my life. If the Ra’zac hadn’t become so preoccupied with you, they

might have caught me unawares, and that would have been the end of Brom the

storyteller. The only reason they ran was because I’m stronger than the two of them,

especially during the day. They must have planned to drug me during the night, then

question me about the egg.”

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

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

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

Brom shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

“Why not? Being with the Varden must be safer than chasing after the Ra’zac, especially

for a new Rider.”

Brom snorted and looked at Eragon with fondness. “The Varden are dangerous people. If

we go to them, you will be entangled in their politics and machinations. Their leaders

may send you on missions just to make a point, even though you might not be strong

enough for them. I want you to be well prepared before you go anywhere near the

Varden. At least while we pursue the Ra’zac, I don’t have to worry about someone

poisoning your water. This is the lesser of two evils. And,” he said with a smile, “it keeps

you happy while I train you. . . . Tuatha du orothrim is just a stage in your instruction.

I will help you find—and perhaps even kill—the Ra’zac, for they are as much my enemies

as yours. But then you will have to make a choice.”

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

“Whether to join the Varden,” said Brom. “If you kill the Ra’zac, the only ways for you

to escape Galbatorix’s wrath will be to seek the Varden’s protection, flee to Surda, or

plead for the king’s mercy and join his forces. Even if you don’t kill the Ra’zac, you will

still face this choice eventually.”

Eragon knew the best way to gain sanctuary might be to join the Varden, but he did not

want to spend his entire life fighting the Empire like they did. He mulled over Brom’s

comments, trying to consider them from every angle. “You still didn’t explain how you

know so much about dragons.”

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

time.”

Why me? Eragon asked himself. What made him so special that he should become a

Rider? “Did you ever meet my mother?” he blurted.

Brom looked grave. “Yes, I did.”

“What was she like?”

The old man sighed. “She was full of dignity and pride, like Garrow. Ultimately it was

her downfall, but it was one of her greatest gifts nevertheless. . . . She always helped the

poor and the less fortunate, no matter what her situation.”

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

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

As Cadoc plodded along, Eragon tried to recall when he had thought that Brom was just a

scruffy old man who told stories. For the first time Eragon understood how ignorant he

had been.

He told Saphira what he had learned. She was intrigued by Brom’s revelations, but

recoiled from the thought of being one of Galbatorix’s possessions. At last she

said, Aren’t you glad that you didn’t stay in Carvahall? Think of all the interesting

experiences you would have missed! Eragon groaned in mock distress.

When they stopped for the day, Eragon searched for water while Brom made dinner. He

rubbed his hands together for warmth as he walked in a large circle, listening for a creek

or spring. It was gloomy and damp between the trees.

He found a stream a ways from the camp, then crouched on the bank and watched the

water splash over the rocks, dipping in his fingertips. The icy mountain water swirled

around his skin, numbing it. It doesn’t care what happens to us, or anyone else, thought Eragon. He shivered and stood.

An unusual print on the opposing stream bank caught his attention. It was oddly shaped

and very large. Curious, he jumped across the stream and onto a rock shelf. As he landed,

his foot hit a patch of damp moss. He grabbed a branch for support, but it broke, and he

thrust out his hand to break his fall. He felt his right wrist crack as he hit the ground. Pain lanced up his arm.

A steady stream of curses came out from behind his clenched teeth as he tried not to

howl. Half blind with pain, he curled on the ground, cradling his arm. Eragon! came

Saphira’s alarmed cry. What happened?

Broke my wrist . . . did something stupid . . . fell.

I’m coming, said Saphira.

No—I can make it back. Don’t . . . come. Trees too close for . . . wings.

She sent him a brief image of her tearing the forest apart to get at him, then said, Hurry.

Groaning, he staggered upright. The print was pressed deeply into the ground a few feet

away. It was the mark of a heavy, nail-studded boot. Eragon instantly remembered the

tracks that had surrounded the pile of bodies in Yazuac. “Urgal,” he spat, wishing that

Zar’roc was with him; he could not use his bow with only one hand. His head snapped

up, and he shouted with his mind, Saphira! Urgals! Keep Brom safe.

Eragon leapt back over the stream and raced toward their camp, yanking out his hunting

knife. He saw potential enemies behind every tree and bush. I hope there’s only one

Urgal. He burst into the camp, ducking as Saphira’s tail swung overhead. “Stop. It’s me!”

he yelled.

Oops, said Saphira. Her wings were folded in front of her chest like a wall.

“Oops?” growled Eragon, running to her. “You could’ve killed me! Where’s Brom?”

“I’m right here,” snapped Brom’s voice from behind Saphira’s wings. “Tell your crazy

dragon to release me; she won’t listen to me.”

“Let him go!” said Eragon, exasperated. “Didn’t you tell him?”

No, she said sheepishly. You just said to keep him safe. She lifted her wings, and Brom stepped forward angrily.

“I found an Urgal footprint. And it’s fresh.”

Brom immediately turned serious. “Saddle the horses. We’re leaving.” He put out the

fire, but Eragon did not move. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“My wrist is broken,” he said, swaying.

Brom cursed and saddled Cadoc for him. He helped Eragon onto the horse and said, “We

have to put a splint on your arm as soon as possible. Try not to move your wrist until

then.” Eragon gripped the reins tightly with his left hand. Brom said to Saphira, “It’s

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

about attacking with you nearby.”

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

The light was disappearing quickly, and the horses were tired, but they spurred them on

without respite. Eragon’s wrist, swollen and red, continued to throb. A mile from the

camp, Brom halted. “Listen,” he said.

Eragon heard the faint call of a hunting horn behind them. As it fell silent, panic gripped

him. “They must have found where we were,” said Brom, “and probably Saphira’s tracks.

They will chase us now. It’s not in their nature to let prey escape.” Then two horns

winded. They were closer. A chill ran through Eragon. “Our only chance is to run,” said

Brom. He raised his head to the sky, and his face blanked as he called Saphira.

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

commanded Brom.

“What about you?” Eragon protested.

“I’ll be fine. Now go!” Unable to muster the energy to argue, Eragon climbed onto

Saphira while Brom lashed Snowfire and rode away with Cadoc. Saphira flew after him,

flapping above the galloping horses.

Eragon clung to Saphira as best he could; he winced whenever her movements jostled his

wrist. The horns blared nearby, bringing a fresh wave of terror. Brom crashed through the

underbrush, forcing the horses to their limits. The horns trumpeted in unison close behind

him, then were quiet.

Minutes passed. Where are the Urgals? wondered Eragon. A horn sounded, this time in

the distance. He sighed in relief, resting against Saphira’s neck, while on the ground

Brom slowed his headlong rush. That was close, said Eragon.

Yes, but we cannot stop until— Saphira was interrupted as a horn blasted directly

underneath them. Eragon jerked in surprise, and Brom resumed his frenzied retreat.

Horned Urgals, shouting with coarse voices, barreled along the trail on horses, swiftly

gaining ground. They were almost in sight of Brom; the old man could not outrun

them. We have to do something! exclaimed Eragon.

What?

Land in front of the Urgals!

Are you crazy? demanded Saphira.

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

Very well. Saphira pulled ahead of the Urgals, then turned, preparing to drop onto the trail.

Eragon reached for his power and felt the familiar resistance in his mind that separated

him from the magic. He did not try to breach it yet. A muscle twitched in his neck.

As the Urgals pounded up the trail, he shouted, “Now!” Saphira abruptly folded her

wings and dropped straight down from above the trees, landing on the trail in a spray of

dirt and rocks.

The Urgals shouted with alarm and yanked on their horses’ reins. The animals went stiff-

legged and collided into each other, but the Urgals quickly untangled themselves to face

Saphira with bared weapons. Hate crossed their faces as they glared at her. There were

twelve of them, all ugly, jeering brutes. Eragon wondered why they did not flee. He had

thought that the sight of Saphira would frighten them away. Why are they waiting? Are

they going to attack us or not?

He was shocked when the largest Urgal advanced and spat, “Our master wishes to speak

with you, human!” The monster spoke in deep, rolling gutturals.

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

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

The Urgal sneered. “His name does not deserve to be given to one as low as yourself. He

rules the sky and holds dominance over the earth. You are no more than a stray ant to

him. Yet he has decreed that you shall be brought before him, alive . Take heart that you have become worthy of such notice!”

“I’ll never go with you nor any of my enemies!” declared Eragon, thinking of Yazuac.

“Whether you serve Shade, Urgal, or some twisted fiend I’ve not heard of, I have no wish

to parley with him.”

“That is a grave mistake,” growled the Urgal, showing his fangs. “There is no way to

escape him. Eventually you will stand before our master. If you resist, he will fill your

days with agony.”

Eragon wondered who had the power to bring the Urgals under one banner. Was there a

third great force loose in the land—along with the Empire and the Varden? “Keep your

offer and tell your master that the crows can eat his entrails for all I care!”

Rage swept through the Urgals; their leader howled, gnashing his teeth. “We’ll drag you

to him, then!” He waved his arm and the Urgals rushed at Saphira. Raising his right hand,

Eragon barked, “Jierda!”

No! cried Saphira, but it was too late.

The monsters faltered as Eragon’s palm glowed. Beams of light lanced from his hand,

striking each of them in the gut. The Urgals were thrown through the air and smashed

into trees, falling senseless to the ground.

Fatigue suddenly drained Eragon of strength, and he tumbled off Saphira. His mind felt

hazy and dull. As Saphira bent over him, he realized that he might have gone too far. The

energy needed to lift and throw twelve Urgals was enormous. Fear engulfed him as he

struggled to stay conscious.

At the edge of his vision he saw one of the Urgals stagger to his feet, sword in hand.

Eragon tried to warn Saphira, but he was too weak. No . . . , he thought feebly. The Urgal crept toward Saphira until he was well past her tail, then raised his sword to strike her

neck. No! . . . Saphira whirled on the monster, roaring savagely. Her talons slashed with blinding speed. Blood spurted everywhere as the Urgal was rent in two.

Saphira snapped her jaws together with finality and returned to Eragon. She gently

wrapped her bloody claws around his torso, then growled and jumped into the air. The

night blurred into a pain-filled streak. The hypnotic sound of Saphira’s wings put him in a

bleary trance: up, down; up, down; up, down. . . .

When Saphira eventually landed, Eragon was dimly aware of Brom talking with her.

Eragon could not understand what they said, but a decision must have been reached

because Saphira took off again.

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

VISION OFPERFECTION

Eragon twisted under the blankets, reluctant to open his eyes. He dozed, then a fuzzy

thought entered his mind . . . How did I get here? Confused, he pulled the blankets tighter and felt something hard on his right arm. He tried to move his wrist. It zinged with

pain. The Urgals! He bolted upright.

He lay in a small clearing that was empty save a small campfire heating a stew-filled pot.

A squirrel chattered on a branch. His bow and quiver rested alongside the blankets.

Attempting to stand made him grimace, as his muscles were feeble and sore. There was a

heavy splint on his bruised right arm.

Where is everyone? he wondered forlornly. He tried to call Saphira, but to his alarm could not feel her. Ravenous hunger gripped him, so he ate the stew. Still hungry, he looked for

the saddlebags, hoping to find a chunk of bread. Neither the saddlebags nor the horses

were in the clearing. I’m sure there’s a good reason for this, he thought, suppressing a surge of uneasiness.

He wandered about the clearing, then returned to his blankets and rolled them up.

Without anything better to do, he sat against a tree and watched the clouds overhead.

Hours passed, but Brom and Saphira did not show up. I hope nothing’s wrong.

As the afternoon dragged on, Eragon grew bored and started to explore the surrounding

forest. When he became tired, he rested under a fir tree that leaned against a boulder with

a bowl-shaped depression filled with clear dew water.

Eragon stared at the water and thought about Brom’s instructions for scrying. Maybe I can

see where Saphira is. Brom said that scrying takes a lot of energy, but I’m stronger than

he is. . . . He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. In his mind he formed a picture of Saphira, making it as lifelike as possible. It was more demanding than he expected. Then

he said, “Draumr kópa!”and gazed at the water.

Its surface became completely flat, frozen by an invisible force. The reflections

disappeared and the water became clear. On it shimmered an image of Saphira. Her

surroundings were pure white, but Eragon could see that she was flying. Brom sat on her

back, beard streaming, sword on his knees.

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

The water grew still, then the image formed on its surface. Roran appeared, sitting on an

invisible chair. Like Saphira, his surroundings were white. There were new lines on

Roran’s face—he looked more like Garrow than ever before. Eragon held the image in

place as long as he could. Is Roran in Therinsford? He’s certainly nowhere I’ve been.

The strain of using magic had brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He sighed and for a

long time was content just to sit. Then an absurd notion struck him. What if I tried to scry something I created with my imagination or saw in a dream? He smiled. Perhaps I’d be shown what my own consciousness looks like.

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

about the woman in the cell.

After fixing the scene in his mind, he spoke the words and watched the water intently. He

waited, but nothing happened. Disappointed, he was about to release the magic when

inky blackness swirled across the water, covering the surface. The image of a lone candle

flickered in the darkness, brightening to illuminate a stone cell. The woman from his

dream was curled up on a cot in one corner. She lifted her head, dark hair falling back,

and stared directly at Eragon. He froze, the force of her gaze keeping him in place. Chills

ran up his spine as their eyes locked. Then the woman trembled and collapsed limply.

The water cleared. Eragon rocked back on his heels, gasping. “This can’t be.” She

shouldn’t be real; I only dreamed about her! How could she know I was looking at her?

And how could I have scryed into a dungeon that I’ve never seen? He shook his head,

wondering if any of his other dreams had been visions.

The rhythmic thump of Saphira’s wings interrupted his thoughts. He hurried back to the

clearing, arriving just as Saphira landed. Brom was on her back, as Eragon had seen, but

his sword was now bloody. Brom’s face was contorted; the edges of his beard were

stained red. “What happened?” asked Eragon, afraid that he had been wounded.

“What happened?” roared the old man. “I’ve been trying to clean up your mess!” He

slashed the air with the sword, flinging drops of blood along its arc. “Do you know what

you did with that little trick of yours? Do you?”

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

“Yes,” growled Brom, “but that piece of magic nearly killed you! You’ve been sleeping

for two days. There were twelve Urgals. Twelve! But that didn’t stop you from trying to throw them all the way to Teirm, now did it? What were you thinking? Sending a rock

through each of their heads would have been the smart thing to do. But no, you had to

knock them unconscious so they could run away later. I’ve spent the last two days trying

to track them down. Even with Saphira, three escaped!”

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

“It wasn’t a problem in Yazuac.”

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

extreme.”

“Extreme!” cried Brom. “It’s not extreme when they wouldn’t show you the same mercy.

And why, oh why, did you show yourself to them?”

“You said that they had found Saphira’s footprints. It didn’t make any difference if they

saw me,” said Eragon defensively.

Brom stabbed his sword into the dirt and snapped, “I said they had probably found her

tracks. We didn’t know for certain. They might have believed they were chasing some

stray travelers. But why would they think that now? After all, you landed right in front of them! And since you let them live, they’re scrambling around the countryside with all

sorts of fantastic tales! This might even get back to the Empire!” He threw his hands up.

“You don’t even deserve to be called a Rider after this, boy. ” Brom yanked his sword out of the ground and stomped to the fire. He took a rag from inside his robe and angrily

began to clean the blade.

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

with Brom.

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

sorry?”

Brom sighed and sheathed his sword. “No, it wouldn’t. Your feelings can’t change what

happened.” He jabbed his finger at Eragon’s chest. “You made some very bad choices

that could have dangerous repercussions. Not the least of which is that you almost died.

Died, Eragon! From now on you’re going to have to think. There’s a reason why we’re

born with brains in our heads, not rocks.”

Eragon nodded, abashed. “It’s not as bad as you think, though; the Urgals already knew

about me. They had orders to capture me.”

Astonishment widened Brom’s eyes. He stuck his unlit pipe in his mouth. “No, it’s not as

bad as I thought. It’s worse! Saphira told me you had talked with the Urgals, but she

didn’t mention this.” The words tumbled out of Eragon’s mouth as he quickly described

the confrontation. “So they have some sort of leader now, eh?” questioned Brom.

Eragon nodded.

“And you just defied his wishes, insulted him, and attacked his men?” Brom shook his

head. “I didn’t think it could get any worse. If the Urgals had been killed, your rudeness

would have gone unnoticed, but now it’ll be impossible to ignore. Congratulations, you

just made enemies with one of the most powerful beings in Alagaësia.”

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

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

Urgal leader is.”

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

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Your arm is going to take at least a couple of weeks

to heal. That time would be well spent forging some sense into you. I suppose this is

partially my fault. I’ve been teaching you how to do things, but not whether you should. It takes discretion, something you obviously lack. All the magic in Alagaësia won’t help

you if you don’t know when to use it.”

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

Brom rolled his eyes. “Yes, we can keep looking for the Ra’zac, but even if we find

them, it won’t do any good until you’ve healed.” He began unsaddling Saphira. “Are you

well enough to ride?”

“I think so.”

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

“Where are Cadoc and Snowfire?”

Brom pointed off to the side. “Over there a ways. I picketed them where there was grass.”

Eragon prepared to leave, then followed Brom to the horses.

Saphira said pointedly, If you had explained what you were planning to do, none of this

would have happened. I would have told you it was a bad idea not to kill the Urgals. I

only agreed to do what you asked because I assumed it was halfway reasonable!

I don’t want to talk about it.

As you wish, she sniffed.

As they rode, every bump and dip in the trail made Eragon grit his teeth with discomfort.

If he had been alone, he would have stopped. With Brom there, he dared not complain.

Also, Brom started drilling him with difficult scenarios involving Urgals, magic, and

Saphira. The imagined fights were many and varied. Sometimes a Shade or other dragons

were included. Eragon discovered that it was possible to torture his body and mind at the

same time. He got most of the questions wrong and became increasingly frustrated.

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

that he was disappointed.

MASTER OF

THEBLADE

The next day was easier on both of them. Eragon felt better and was able to answer

more of Brom’s questions correctly. After an especially difficult exercise, Eragon

mentioned his scrying of the woman. Brom pulled on his beard. “You say she was

imprisoned?”

“Yes.”

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

“Not very clearly. The lighting was bad, yet I could tell that she was beautiful. It’s

strange; I didn’t have any problem seeing her eyes. And she did look at me.”

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

being scryed upon.”

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

voice.

“Not really,” admitted Brom. “If pressed, I suppose I could come up with a few guesses,

but none of them would be very likely. This dream of yours is peculiar. Somehow you

managed to scry in your sleep something that you’d never seen before—without saying

the words of power. Dreams do occasionally touch the spirit realm, but this is different.”

“Perhaps to understand this we should search every prison and dungeon until we find the

woman,” bantered Eragon. He actually thought it would be a good idea. Brom laughed

and rode on.

Brom’s strict training filled nearly every hour as the days slowly blended into weeks.

Because of his splint, Eragon was forced to use his left hand whenever they sparred.

Before long he could duel as well with his left hand as he had with his right.

By the time they crossed the Spine and came to the plains, spring had crept over

Alagaësia, summoning a multitude of flowers. The bare deciduous trees were russet with

buds, while new blades of grass began to push up between last year’s dead stalks. Birds

returned from their winter absence to mate and build nests.

The travelers followed the Toark River southeast, along the edge of the Spine. It grew

steadily as tributaries flowed into it from every side, feeding its bulging girth. When the

river was over a league wide, Brom pointed at the silt islands that dotted the water.

“We’re close to Leona Lake now,” he said. “It’s only about two leagues away.”

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

“We can try.”

Dusk soon made the trail hard to follow, but the sound of the river at their side guided

them. When the moon rose, the bright disk provided enough light to see what lay ahead.

Leona Lake looked like a thin sheet of silver beaten over the land. The water was so calm

and smooth it did not even seem to be liquid. Aside from a bright strip of moonlight

reflecting off the surface, it was indistinguishable from the ground. Saphira was on the

rocky shore, fanning her wings to dry them. Eragon greeted her and she said, The water is

lovely—deep, cool, and clear.

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

At dawn, Eragon eagerly rushed out to see the lake in daylight. A whitecapped expanse

of water rippled with fan-shaped patterns where wind brushed it. The pure size of it

delighted him. He whooped and ran to the water. Saphira, where are you? Let’s have

some fun!

The moment Eragon climbed onto her, she jumped out over the water. They soared

upward, circling over the lake, but even at that height the opposing shore was not

visible. Would you like to take a bath? Eragon casually asked Saphira.

She grinned wolfishly. Hold on! She locked her wings and sank to the waves, clipping the crests with her claws. The water sparkled in the sunlight as they sailed over it. Eragon

whooped again. Then Saphira folded her wings and dived into the lake, her head and

neck entering it like a lance.

The water hit Eragon like an icy wall, knocking out his breath and almost tearing him off

Saphira. He held on tightly as she swam to the surface. With three strokes of her feet, she

breached it and sent a burst of shimmering water toward the sky. Eragon gasped and

shook his hair as Saphira slithered across the lake, using her tail as a rudder.

Ready?

Eragon nodded and took a deep breath, tightening his arms. This time they slid gently

under the water. They could see for yards through the unclouded liquid. Saphira twisted

and turned in fantastic shapes, slipping through the water like an eel. Eragon felt as if he

were riding a sea serpent of legend.

Just as his lungs started to cry for air, Saphira arched her back and pointed her head

upward. An explosion of droplets haloed them as she leapt into the air, wings snapping

open. With two powerful flaps she gained altitude.

Wow! That was fantastic, exclaimed Eragon.

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

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

wrist itched.

Once Eragon was dry, he and Brom saddled the horses and started around Leona Lake in

high spirits while Saphira playfully dived in and out of the water.

Before dinner, Eragon blocked Zar’roc’s edge in preparation for their usual sparring.

Neither he nor Brom moved as they waited for the other to strike first. Eragon inspected

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

caught his attention.

Eragon swooped down, grabbed the stick, and hurled it at Brom. The splint got in his

way, though, and Brom easily sidestepped the piece of wood. The old man rushed

forward, swinging his sword. Eragon ducked just as the blade whistled over his head. He

growled and tackled Brom ferociously.

They pitched to the ground, each struggling to stay on top. Eragon rolled to the side and

swept Zar’roc over the ground at Brom’s shins. Brom parried the blow with the hilt of his

sword, then jumped to his feet. Twisting as he stood, Eragon attacked again, guiding

Zar’roc through a complex pattern. Sparks danced from their blades as they struck again

and again. Brom blocked each blow, his face tight with concentration. But Eragon could

tell that he was tiring. The relentless hammering continued as each sought an opening in

the other’s defenses.

Then Eragon felt the battle change. Blow by blow he gained advantage; Brom’s parries

slowed and he lost ground. Eragon easily blocked a stab from Brom. Veins pulsed on the

old man’s forehead and cords bulged in his neck from the effort.

Suddenly confident, Eragon swung Zar’roc faster than ever, weaving a web of steel

around Brom’s sword. With a burst of speed, he smashed the flat of his blade against

Brom’s guard and knocked the sword to the ground. Before Brom could react, Eragon

flicked Zar’roc up to his throat.

They stood panting, the red sword tip resting on Brom’s collarbone. Eragon slowly

lowered his arm and backed away. It was the first time he had bested Brom without

resorting to trickery. Brom picked up his sword and sheathed it. Still breathing hard, he

said, “We’re done for today.”

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

Brom shook his head. “I can teach you nothing more of the sword. Of all the fighters I’ve

met, only three of them could have defeated me like that, and I doubt any of them could

have done it with their left hand.” He smiled ruefully. “I may not be as young as I used to

be, but I can tell that you’re a talented and rare swordsman.”

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

“Oh, you’re not getting out of it,” laughed Brom. “But we’ll go easier now. It’s not as

important if we miss a night here or there.” He wiped his brow. “Just remember, if you

ever have the misfortune to fight an elf—trained or not, female or male—expect to lose.

They, along with dragons and other creatures of magic, are many times stronger than

nature intended. Even the weakest elf could easily overpower you. The same goes for the

Ra’zac—they are not human and tire much more slowly than we do.”

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

You fought well, she said. He smiled.

Brom seated himself with a shrug. “There are a few, but none are available to you now.

Magic will let you defeat all but the strongest enemies. For those you’ll need Saphira’s

help, plus a great deal of luck. Remember, when creatures of magic actually use magic,

they can accomplish things that could kill a human, because of their enhanced abilities.”

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

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, leaning on an elbow. “Suppose I was attacked by a Shade. How could I

block his magic? Most spells take place instantaneously, which makes it impossible to

react in time. And even if I could, how would I nullify an enemy’s magic? It seems I

would have to know my opponent’s intention before he acted.” He paused. “I just don’t

see how it can be done. Whoever attacked first would win.”

Brom sighed. “What you are talking about—a ‘wizards’ duel,’ if you will—is extremely

dangerous. Haven’t you ever wondered how Galbatorix was able to defeat all of the

Riders with the help of only a dozen or so traitors?”

“I never thought about it,” acknowledged Eragon.

“There are several ways. Some you’ll learn about later, but the main one is that

Galbatorix was, and still is, a master of breaking into people’s minds. You see, in a

wizards’ duel there are strict rules that each side must observe or else both contestants

will die. To begin with, no one uses magic until one of the participants gains access to the

other’s mind.”

Saphira curled her tail comfortably around Eragon and asked, Why wait? By the time an

enemy realizes that you’ve attacked, it will be too late for him to act. Eragon repeated the question out loud.

Brom shook his head. “No, it won’t. If I were to suddenly use my power against you,

Eragon, you would surely die, but in the brief moment before you were destroyed, there

would be time for a counterattack. Therefore, unless one combatant has a death wish,

neither side attacks until one of them has breached the other’s defenses.”

“Then what happens?” Eragon inquired.

Brom shrugged and said, “Once you’re inside your enemy’s mind, it’s easy enough to

anticipate what he will do and prevent it. Even with that advantage, it’s still possible to

lose if you don’t know how to counteract spells.”

He filled and lit his pipe. “And that requires extraordinarily quick thinking. Before you

can defend yourself, you have to understand the exact nature of the forces directed at you.

If you’re being attacked with heat, you have to know whether it is being conveyed to you

through air, fire, light, or some other medium. Only once that’s known can you combat

the magic by, for instance, chilling the heated material.”

“It sounds difficult.”

“Extremely,” confirmed Brom. A plume of smoke rose from his pipe. “Seldom can

people survive such a duel for more than a few seconds. The enormous amount of effort

and skill required condemns anyone without the proper training to a quick death. Once

you’ve progressed, I’ll start teaching you the necessary methods. In the meantime, if you

ever find yourself facing a wizards’ duel, I suggest you run away as fast as you can.”

THEMIRE OF

DRAS-LEONA

They lunched at Fasaloft, a bustling lakeside village. It was a charming place set on a

rise overlooking the lake. As they ate in the hostel’s common room, Eragon listened

intently to the gossip and was relieved to hear no rumors of him and Saphira.

The trail, now a road, had grown steadily worse over the past two days. Wagon wheels

and iron-shod hooves had conspired to tear up the ground, making many sections

impassable. An increase in travelers forced Saphira to hide during the day and then catch

up with Brom and Eragon at night.

For days they continued south along Leona Lake’s vast shore. Eragon began to wonder if

they would ever get around it, so he was heartened when they met men who said that

Dras-Leona was an easy day’s ride ahead of them.

Eragon rose early the following morning. His fingers twitched with anticipation at the

thought of finally finding the Ra’zac. The two of you must be careful, said Saphira. The Ra’zac could have spies watching for travelers that fit your description.

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

She lowered her head until their eyes met. Perhaps, but realize that I won’t be able to

protect you as I did with the Urgals. I will be too far away to come to your aid, nor would I survive long in the narrow streets your kind favor. Follow Brom’s lead in this hunt; he

is sensible.

I know, he said somberly.

Will you go with Brom to the Varden? Once the Ra’zac are killed, he will want to take

you to them. And since Galbatorix will be enraged by the Ra’zac’s death, that may be the

safest thing for us to do.

Eragon rubbed his arms. I don’t want to fight the Empire all the time like the Varden do.

Life is more than constant war. There’ll be time to consider it once the Ra’zac are gone.

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

The road was clogged with farmers taking their goods to market in Dras-Leona. Brom

and Eragon were forced to slow their horses and wait for wagons that blocked the way.

Although they saw smoke in the distance before noon, it was another league before the

city was clearly visible. Unlike Teirm, a planned city, Dras-Leona was a tangled mess

that sprawled next to Leona Lake. Ramshackle buildings sat on crooked streets, and the

heart of the city was surrounded by a dirty, pale yellow wall of daubed mud.

Several miles east, a mountain of bare rock speared the sky with spires and columns, a

tenebrous nightmare ship. Near-vertical sides rose out of the ground like a jagged piece

of the earth’s bone.

Brom pointed. “That is Helgrind. It’s the reason Dras-Leona was originally built. People are fascinated by it, even though it’s an unhealthy and malevolent thing.” He gestured at

the buildings inside the city’s wall. “We should go to the center of the city first.”

As they crept along the road to Dras-Leona, Eragon saw that the highest building within

the city was a cathedral that loomed behind the walls. It was strikingly similar to

Helgrind, especially when its arches and flanged spires caught the light. “Who do they

worship?” he asked.

Brom grimaced in distaste. “Their prayers go to Helgrind. It’s a cruel religion they

practice. They drink human blood and make flesh offerings. Their priests often lack body

parts because they believe that the more bone and sinew you give up, the less you’re

attached to the mortal world. They spend much of their time arguing about which of

Helgrind’s three peaks is the highest and most important and whether the fourth—and

lowest—should be included in their worship.”

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

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

‘penance.’ ”

At Dras-Leona’s enormous gates, they led the horses through the crush of people. Ten

soldiers were stationed on either side of the gates, casually scanning the crowd. Eragon

and Brom passed into the city without incident.

The houses inside the city wall were tall and thin to compensate for the lack of space.

Those next to the wall were braced against it. Most of the houses hung over the narrow,

winding streets, covering the sky so that it was hard to tell if it was night or day. Nearly

all the buildings were constructed of the same rough brown wood, which darkened the

city even more. The air reeked like a sewer; the streets were filthy.

A group of ragged children ran between the houses, fighting over scraps of bread.

Deformed beggars crouched next to the entrance gates, pleading for money. Their cries

for help were like a chorus of the damned. We don’t even treat animals like this, thought Eragon, eyes wide with anger. “I won’t stay here,” he said, rebelling against the sight.

“It gets better farther in,” said Brom. “Right now we need to find an inn and form a

strategy. Dras-Leona can be a dangerous place to even the most cautious. I don’t want to

remain on the streets any longer than necessary.”

They forged deeper into Dras-Leona, leaving the squalid entrance behind. As they

entered wealthier parts of the city, Eragon wondered, How can these people live in ease

when the suffering around them is so obvious?

They found lodging at the Golden Globe, which was cheap but not decrepit. A narrow

bed was crammed against one wall of the room, with a rickety table and a basin alongside

it. Eragon took one look at the mattress and said, “I’m sleeping on the floor. There are

probably enough bugs in that thing to eat me alive.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive them of a meal,” said Brom, dropping his bags on the

mattress. Eragon set his own on the floor and pulled off his bow.

“What now?” he asked.

“We find food and beer. After that, sleep. Tomorrow we can start looking for the

Ra’zac.” Before they left the room, Brom warned, “No matter what happens, make sure

that your tongue doesn’t loosen. We’ll have to leave immediately if we’re given away.”

The inn’s food was barely adequate, but its beer was excellent. By the time they stumbled

back to the room, Eragon’s head was buzzing pleasantly. He unrolled his blankets on the

floor and slid under them as Brom tumbled onto the bed.

Just before Eragon fell asleep, he contacted Saphira: We’re going to be here for a few

days, but this shouldn’t take as long as it did at Teirm. When we discover where the

Ra’zac are, you might be able to help us get them. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Right

now I’m not thinking too clearly.

You’ve been drinking, came the accusing thought. Eragon considered it for a moment and had to agree that she was absolutely right. Her disapproval was clear, but all she said

was, I won’t envy you in the morning.

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

TRAIL OFOIL

W hat was I thinking? wondered Eragon in the morning. His head was pounding and his

tongue felt thick and fuzzy. As a rat skittered under the floor, Eragon winced at the noise.

How are we feeling? asked Saphira smugly.

Eragon ignored her.

A moment later, Brom rolled out of bed with a grumble. He doused his head in cold

water from the basin, then left the room. Eragon followed him into the hallway. “Where

are you going?” he asked.

“To recover.”

“I’ll come.” At the bar, Eragon discovered that Brom’s method of recovery involved

imbibing copious amounts of hot tea and ice water and washing it all down with brandy.

When they returned to the room, Eragon was able to function somewhat better.

Brom belted on his sword and smoothed the wrinkles out of his robe. “The first thing we

need to do is ask some discreet questions. I want to find out where the Seithr oil was

delivered in Dras-Leona and where it was taken from there. Most likely, soldiers or

workmen were involved in transporting it. We have to find those men and get one to

talk.”

They left the Golden Globe and searched for warehouses where the Seithr oil might have

been delivered. Near the center of Dras-Leona, the streets began to slant upward toward a

palace of polished granite. It was built on a rise so that it towered above every building

except the cathedral.

The courtyard was a mosaic of mother-of-pearl, and parts of the walls were inlaid with

gold. Black statues stood in alcoves, with sticks of incense smoking in their cold hands.

Soldiers stationed every four yards watched passersby keenly.

“Who lives there?” asked Eragon in awe.

“Marcus Tábor, ruler of this city. He answers only to the king and his own conscience,

which hasn’t been very active recently,” said Brom. They walked around the palace,

looking at the gated, ornate houses that surrounded it.

By midday they had learned nothing useful, so they stopped for lunch. “This city is too

vast for us to comb it together,” said Brom. “Search on your own. Meet me at the Golden

Globe by dusk.” He glowered at Eragon from under his bushy eyebrows. “I’m trusting

you not to do anything stupid.”

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

opposite direction.

Throughout the rest of the day, Eragon talked with shopkeepers and workers, trying to be

as pleasant and charming as he could. His questions led him from one end of the city to

the other and back again. No one seemed to know about the oil. Wherever he went, the

cathedral stared down at him. It was impossible to escape its tall spires.

At last he found a man who had helped ship the Seithr oil and remembered to which

warehouse it had been taken. Eragon excitedly went to look at the building, then returned

to the Golden Globe. It was over an hour before Brom came back, slumped with fatigue.

“Did you find anything?” asked Eragon.

Brom brushed back his white hair. “I heard a great deal of interesting things today, not

the least of which is that Galbatorix will visit Dras-Leona within the week.”

“What?” exclaimed Eragon.

Brom slouched against the wall, the lines on his forehead deepening. “It seems that Tábor

has taken a few too many liberties with his power, so Galbatorix has decided to come

teach him a lesson in humility. It’s the first time the king has left Urû’baen in over ten

years.”

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

“Of course he knows of us, but I’m sure he hasn’t been told our location. If he had, we would already be in the Ra’zac’s grasp. However, this means that whatever we’re going

to do about the Ra’zac must be accomplished before Galbatorix arrives. We don’t want to

be anywhere within twenty leagues of him. The one thing in our favor is that the Ra’zac

are sure to be here, preparing for his visit.”

“I want to get the Ra’zac,” said Eragon, his fists tightening, “but not if it means fighting

the king. He could probably tear me to pieces.”

That seemed to amuse Brom. “Very good: caution. And you’re right; you wouldn’t stand

a chance against Galbatorix. Now tell me what you learned today. It might confirm what

I heard.”

Eragon shrugged. “It was mostly drivel, but I did talk with a man who knew where the oil

was taken. It’s just an old warehouse. Other than that, I didn’t discover anything useful.”

“My day was a little more fruitful than yours. I heard the same thing you did, so I went to

the warehouse and talked with the workers. It didn’t take much cajoling before they

revealed that the cases of Seithr oil are always sent from the warehouse to the palace.”

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

“No, it’s not! Don’t interrupt. After that, I went to the palace and got myself invited into

the servants’ quarters as a bard. For several hours I wandered about, amusing the maids

and others with songs and poems—and asking questions all the while.” Brom slowly

filled his pipe with tobacco. “It’s really amazing all the things servants find out. Did you

know that one of the earls has three mistresses, and they all live in the same wing of the palace?” He shook his head and lit the pipe. “Aside from the fascinating tidbits, I was

told, quite by accident, where the oil is taken from the palace.”

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

Brom puffed on his pipe and blew a smoke ring. “Out of the city, of course. Every full

moon two slaves are sent to the base of Helgrind with a month’s worth of provisions.

Whenever the Seithr oil arrives in Dras-Leona, they send it along with the provisions.

The slaves are never seen again. And the one time someone followed them, he

disappeared too.”

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

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

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

“There or somewhere nearby.”

“If they are in Helgrind, they’ll be either at the bottom—and protected by a thick stone door—or higher up where only their flying mounts, or Saphira, can reach. Top or bottom,

their shelter will no doubt be disguised.” He thought for a moment. “If Saphira and I go

flying around Helgrind, the Ra’zac are sure to see us—not to mention all of Dras-Leona.”

“It is a problem,” agreed Brom.

Eragon frowned. “What if we took the place of the two slaves? The full moon isn’t far

off. It would give us a perfect opportunity to get close to the Ra’zac.”

Brom tugged his beard thoughtfully. “That’s chancy at best. If the slaves are killed from a

distance, we’ll be in trouble. We can’t harm the Ra’zac if they aren’t in sight.”

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

“I’m sure they are,” said Brom, his face grave. Then his eyes sparkled, and he blew

another smoke ring. “Still, it’s an intriguing idea. If it were done with Saphira hidden

nearby and a . . .” His voice trailed off. “It might work, but we’ll have to move quickly.

With the king coming, there isn’t much time.”

“Should we go to Helgrind and look around? It would be good to see the land in daylight

so we won’t be surprised by any ambushes,” said Eragon.

Brom fingered his staff. “That can be done later. Tomorrow I’ll return to the palace and

figure out how we can replace the slaves. I have to be careful not to arouse suspicion,

though—I could easily be revealed by spies and courtiers who know about the Ra’zac.”

“I can’t believe it; we actually found them,” said Eragon quietly. An image of his dead

uncle and burned farm flashed through his mind. His jaw tightened.

“The toughest part is yet to come, but yes, we’ve done well,” said Brom. “If fortune

smiles on us, you may soon have your revenge and the Varden will be rid of a dangerous

enemy. What comes after that will be up to you.”

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

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

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

What is it you want? she asked, suddenly sour. To go back to your previous life? You know that won’t happen, so stop mooning after it! At a certain point you have to decide what to

commit to. Will you hide for the rest of your life, or will you help the Varden? Those are

the only options left to you, unless you join forces with Galbatorix, which I do not and

never will accept.

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

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

WoRSHIPERS

OFHELGRIND

Eragon was alone in the room when he woke. Scrawled onto the wall with a charcoal

stick was a note that read:

Eragon,

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

Brom

P.S. Avoid the palace. Don’t go anywhere without your bow! Keep it strung.

Eragon wiped the wall clean, then retrieved the money from under the bed. He slipped

the bow across his back, thinking, I wish I didn’t have to go armed all the time.

He left the Golden Globe and ambled through the streets, stopping to observe whatever

interested him. There were many intriguing stores, but none quite as exciting as Angela’s

herb shop in Teirm. At times he glared at the dark, claustrophobic houses and wished that

he were free of the city. When he grew hungry, he bought a wedge of cheese and a loaf of

bread and ate them, sitting on a curb.

Later, in a far corner of Dras-Leona, he heard an auctioneer rattling off a list of prices.

Curious, he headed toward the voice and arrived at a wide opening between two

buildings. Ten men stood on a waist-high platform. Arrayed before them was a richly

dressed crowd that was both colorful and boisterous. Where are the goods for sale?

wondered Eragon.

The auctioneer finished his list and motioned for a young man behind the platform to join

him. The man awkwardly climbed up, chains dragging at his hands and feet. “And here

we have our first item,” proclaimed the auctioneer. “A healthy male from the Hadarac

Desert, captured just last month, and in excellent condition. Look at those arms and legs;

he’s strong as a bull! He’d be perfect as a shield bearer, or, if you don’t trust him for that, hard labor. But let me tell you, lords and ladies, that would be a waste. He’s bright as a

nail, if you can get him to talk a civilized tongue!”

The crowd laughed, and Eragon ground his teeth with fury. His lips started to form a

word that would free the slave, and his arm, newly liberated from the splint, rose. The

mark on his palm shimmered. He was about to release the magic when it struck him, He’d

never get away! The slave would be caught before he reached the city walls. Eragon

would only make the situation worse if he tried to help. He lowered his arm and quietly

cursed. Think! This is how you got into trouble with the Urgals.

He watched helplessly as the slave was sold to a tall, hawk-nosed man. The next slave

was a tiny girl, no more than six years old, wrenched from the arms of her crying mother.

As the auctioneer started the bidding, Eragon forced himself to walk away, rigid with

fury and outrage.

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

punched a nearby wall, bruising his knuckles.

That’s the sort of thing I could stop by fighting the Empire, he realized. W ith Saphira by my side I could free those slaves. I’ve been graced with special powers; it would be

selfish of me not to use them for the benefit of others. If I don’t, I might as well not be a Rider at all.

It was a while before he took stock of his bearings and was surprised to find himself

before the cathedral. Its twisted spires were covered with statues and scrollwork. Snarling

gargoyles crouched along the eaves. Fantastic beasts writhed on the walls, and heroes and

kings marched along their bottom edges, frozen in cold marble. Ribbed arches and tall

stained-glass windows lined the cathedral’s sides, along with columns of differing sizes.

A lonely turret helmed the building like a mast.

Recessed in shadow at the cathedral’s front was an iron-bound door inlaid with a row of

silver script that Eragon recognized as the ancient language. As best he could tell, it

read: May thee who enter here understand thine impermanence and forget thine

attachments to that which is beloved.

The entire building sent a shiver down Eragon’s spine. There was something menacing

about it, as if it were a predator crouched in the city, waiting for its next victim.

A broad row of steps led to the cathedral’s entrance. Eragon solemnly ascended them and

stopped before the door. I wonder if I can go in? Almost guiltily he pushed on the door. It swung open smoothly, gliding on oiled hinges. He stepped inside.

The silence of a forgotten tomb filled the empty cathedral. The air was chill and dry. Bare

walls extended to a vaulted ceiling that was so high Eragon felt no taller than an ant.

Stained-glass windows depicting scenes of anger, hate, and remorse pierced the walls,

while spectral beams of light washed sections of the granite pews with transparent hues,

leaving the rest in shadow. His hands were shaded a deep blue.

Between the windows stood statues with rigid, pale eyes. He returned their stern gazes,

then slowly trod up the center row, afraid to break the quiet. His leather boots padded

noiselessly on the polished stone floor.

The altar was a great slab of stone devoid of adornment. A solitary finger of light fell

upon it, illuminating motes of golden dust floating in the air. Behind the altar, the pipes

of a wind organ pierced the ceiling and opened themselves to the elements. The

instrument would play its music only when a gale rocked Dras-Leona.

Out of respect, Eragon knelt before the altar and bowed his head. He did not pray but

paid homage to the cathedral itself. The sorrows of the lives it had witnessed, as well as

the unpleasantness of the elaborate pageantry that played out between its walls, emanated

from the stones. It was a forbidding place, bare and cold. In that chilling touch, though,

came a glimpse of eternity and perhaps the powers that lay there.

Finally Eragon inclined his head and rose. Calm and grave, he whispered words to

himself in the ancient language, then turned to leave. He froze. His heart jumped,

hammering like a drum.

The Ra’zac stood at the cathedral’s entrance, watching him. Their swords were drawn,

keen edges bloody in a crimson light. A sibilant hiss came from the smaller Ra’zac.

Neither of them moved.

Rage welled up in Eragon. He had chased the Ra’zac for so many weeks that the pain of

their murderous deed had dulled within him. But his vengeance was at hand. His wrath

exploded like a volcano, fueled even more by his pent-up fury at the slaves’ plight. A roar

broke from his lips, echoing like a thunderstorm as he snatched his bow from his back.

Deftly, he fit an arrow to the string and loosed it. Two more followed an instant later.

The Ra’zac leapt away from the arrows with inhuman swiftness. They hissed as they ran

up the aisle between the pews, cloaks flapping like raven wings. Eragon reached for

another arrow, but caution stayed his hand. If they knew where to find me, Brom is in

danger as well! I must warn him! Then, to Eragon’s horror, a line of soldiers filed into the cathedral, and he glimpsed a field of uniforms jostling outside the doorway.

Eragon gazed hungrily at the charging Ra’zac, then swept around, searching for means of

escape. A vestibule to the left of the altar caught his attention. He bounded through the

archway and dashed down a corridor that led to a priory with a belfry. The patter of the

Ra’zac’s feet behind him made him quicken his pace until the hall abruptly ended with a

closed door.

He pounded against it, trying to break it open, but the wood was too strong. The Ra’zac

were nearly upon him. Frantic, he sucked in his breath and barked, “Jierda!” With a flash,

the door splintered into pieces and fell to the floor. Eragon jumped into the small room

and continued running.

He sped through several chambers, startling a group of priests. Shouts and curses

followed him. The priory bell tolled an alarm. Eragon dodged through a kitchen, passed a

pair of monks, then slipped through a side door. He skidded to stop in a garden

surrounded by a high brick wall devoid of handholds. There were no other exits.

Eragon turned to leave, but there was a low hiss as the Ra’zac shouldered aside the door.

Desperate, he rushed at the wall, arms pumping. Magic could not help him here—if he

used it to break through the wall, he would be too tired to run.

He jumped. Even with his arms outstretched, only his fingertips cleared the edge of the

wall. The rest of his body smashed against the bricks, driving out his breath. Eragon

gasped and hung there, struggling not to fall. The Ra’zac prowled into the garden,

swinging their heads from side to side like wolfhounds sniffing for prey.

Eragon sensed their approach and heaved with his arms. His shoulders shrieked with pain

as he scrambled onto the wall and dropped to the other side. He stumbled, then regained

his balance and darted down an alley just as the Ra’zac leapt over the wall. Galvanized,

Eragon put on another burst of speed.

He ran for over a mile before he had to stop and catch his breath. Unsure if he had lost

the Ra’zac, he found a crowded marketplace and dived under a parked wagon. How did

they find me? he wondered, panting. They shouldn’t have known where I was . . . unless something happened to Brom! He reached out with his mind to Saphira and said, The

Ra’zac found me. We’re all in danger! Check if Brom’s all right. If he is, warn him and

have him meet me at the inn. And be ready to fly here as fast as you can. We may need

your help to escape.

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

great danger.

“Don’t I know it,” muttered Eragon as he rolled out from under the wagon. He hurried

back to the Golden Globe, quickly packed their belongings, saddled the horses, then led

them to the street. Brom soon arrived, staff in hand, scowling dangerously. He swung

onto Snowfire and asked, “What happened?”

“I was in the cathedral when the Ra’zac just appeared behind me,” said Eragon, climbing

onto Cadoc. “I ran back as fast as possible, but they could be here at any second. Saphira

will join us once we’re out of Dras-Leona.”

“We have to get outside the city walls before they close the gates, if they haven’t

already,” said Brom. “If they’re shut, it’ll be nigh impossible for us to leave. Whatever

you do, don’t get separated from me.” Eragon stiffened as ranks of soldiers marched

down one end of the street.

Brom cursed, lashed Snowfire with his reins, and galloped away. Eragon bent low over

Cadoc and followed. They nearly crashed several times during the wild, hazardous ride,

plunging through masses of people that clogged the streets as they neared the city wall.

When the gates finally came into view, Eragon pulled on Cadoc’s reins with dismay. The

gates were already half closed, and a double line of pikemen blocked their way.

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

“We have to try and make it,” said Brom, his voice hard. “I’ll deal with the men, but you

have to keep the gates open for us.” Eragon nodded, gritted his teeth, and dug his heels

into Cadoc.

They plowed toward the line of unwavering soldiers, who lowered their pikes toward the

horses’ chests and braced the weapons against the ground. Though the horses snorted

with fear, Eragon and Brom held them in place. Eragon heard the soldiers shout but kept

his attention on the gates inching shut.

As they neared the sharp pikes, Brom raised his hand and spoke. The words struck with

precision; the soldiers fell to each side as if their legs had been cut out from under them.

The gap between the gates shrank by the second. Hoping that the effort would not prove

too much for him, Eragon drew on his power and shouted, “Du grind huildr!”

A deep grating sound emanated from the gates as they trembled, then ground to a stop.

The crowd and guards fell silent, staring with amazement. With a clatter of the horses’

hooves, Brom and Eragon shot out from behind Dras-Leona’s wall. The instant they were

free, Eragon released the gates. They shuddered, then boomed shut.

He swayed with the expected fatigue but managed to keep riding. Brom watched him

with concern. Their flight continued through the outskirts of Dras-Leona as alarm

trumpets sounded on the city wall. Saphira was waiting for them by the edge of the city,

hidden behind some trees. Her eyes burned; her tail whipped back and forth. “Go, ride

her,” said Brom. “And this time stay in the air, no matter what happens to me. I’ll head

south. Fly nearby; I don’t care if Saphira’s seen.” Eragon quickly mounted Saphira. As

the ground dwindled away beneath him, he watched Brom gallop along the road.

Are you all right? asked Saphira.

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

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

was useless.

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

side, it was hardly a fair match!

You understand that there will be talk of us now? This was hardly an unobtrusive escape.

Evading the Empire will be harder than ever. There was an edge to her voice that he was unaccustomed to.

I know.

They flew low and fast over the road. Leona Lake receded behind them; the land became

dry and rocky and filled with tough, sharp bushes and tall cactuses. Clouds darkened the

sky. Lightning flashed in the distance. As the wind began to howl, Saphira glided steeply

down to Brom. He stopped the horses and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“The wind’s too strong.”

“It’s not that bad,” objected Brom.

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

Brom swore and handed him Cadoc’s reins. They trotted away with Saphira following on

foot, though on the ground she had difficulty keeping up with the horses.

The gale grew stronger, flinging dirt through the air and twisting like a dervish. They

wrapped scarves around their heads to protect their eyes. Brom’s robe flapped in the wind

while his beard whipped about as if it had a life of its own. Though it would make them

miserable, Eragon hoped it would rain so their tracks would be obliterated.

Soon darkness forced them to stop. With only the stars to guide them, they left the road

and made camp behind two boulders. It was too dangerous to light a fire, so they ate cold

food while Saphira sheltered them from the wind.

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

Brom started to light his pipe, but thought better of it and put it away. “One of the palace

servants warned me there were spies among them. Somehow word of me and my

questions must have reached Tábor . . . and through him, the Ra’zac.”

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

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

Eragon held his head between his hands. “Then should we draw the Ra’zac out? If we let

Saphira be seen, they’ll come running to wherever she is.”

“And when they do, there will be fifty soldiers with them,” said Brom. “At any rate, this

isn’t the time to discuss it. Right now we have to concentrate on staying alive. Tonight

will be the most dangerous because the Ra’zac will be hunting us in the dark, when they

are strongest. We’ll have to trade watches until morning.”

“Right,” said Eragon, standing. He hesitated and squinted. His eyes had caught a flicker

of movement, a small patch of color that stood out from the surrounding nightscape. He

stepped toward the edge of their camp, trying to see it better.

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

Eragon stared into the darkness, then turned back. “I don’t know. I thought I saw

something. It must have been a bird.” Pain erupted in the back of his head, and Saphira

roared. Then Eragon toppled to the ground, unconscious.

THERA’ZAC’SREVENGE

Adull throbbing roused Eragon. Every time blood pulsed through his head it brought a

fresh wave of pain. He cracked his eyes open and winced; tears rushed to his eyes as he

looked directly into a bright lantern. He blinked and looked away. When he tried to sit

up, he realized that his hands were tied behind his back.

He turned lethargically and saw Brom’s arms. Eragon was relieved to see that they were

bound together. Why was that? He struggled to figure it out until the thought suddenly

came to him, They wouldn’t tie up a dead man! But then who were “they”? He swiveled

his head further, then stopped as a pair of black boots entered his vision.

Eragon looked up, right into the cowled face of a Ra’zac. Fear jolted through him. He

reached for the magic and started to voice a word that would kill the Ra’zac, but then

halted, puzzled. He could not remember the word. Frustrated, he tried again, only to feel

it slip out of his grasp.

Above him the Ra’zac laughed chillingly. “The drug is working, yesss? I think you will

not be bothering us again.”

There was a rattle off to the left, and Eragon was appalled to see the second Ra’zac fit a

muzzle over Saphira’s head. Her wings were pinioned to her sides by black chains; there

were shackles on her legs. Eragon tried to contact her, but felt nothing.

“She was most cooperative once we threatened to kill you,” hissed the Ra’zac. Squatting

by the lantern, he rummaged through Eragon’s bags, examining and discarding various

items until he removed Zar’roc. “What a pretty thing for one so . . . insignificant. Maybe I

will keep it.” He leaned closer and sneered, “Or maybe, if you behave, our master will let

you polish it.” His moist breath smelled like raw meat.

Then he turned the sword over in his hands and screeched as he saw the symbol on the

scabbard. His companion rushed over. They stood over the sword, hissing and clicking.

At last they faced Eragon. “You will serve our master very well, yesss.”

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

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

to care.

Their attention was diverted when Brom groaned and rolled onto his side. One of the

Ra’zac grabbed his shirt and thrust him effortlessly into the air. “It’sss wearing off.”

“Give him more.”

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

The taller one ran his finger down his sword. “A good plan. But remember, the king’s

instructions were to keep them alive. ”

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

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

talksss?”

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

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

They dragged Brom to the center of the camp and shoved him to his knees. Brom sagged

to one side. Eragon watched with growing fear. I have to get free! He wrenched at the

ropes, but they were too strong to break. “None of that now,” said the tall Ra’zac, poking

him with a sword. He nosed the air and sniffed; something seemed to trouble him.

The other Ra’zac growled, yanked Brom’s head back, and swept the dagger toward his

exposed throat. At that very moment a low buzz sounded, followed by the Ra’zac’s howl.

An arrow protruded from his shoulder. The Ra’zac nearest Eragon dropped to the ground,

barely avoiding a second arrow. He scuttled to his wounded companion, and they glared

into the darkness, hissing angrily. They made no move to stop Brom as he blearily

staggered upright. “Get down!” cried Eragon.

Brom wavered, then tottered toward Eragon. As more arrows hissed into the camp from

the unseen attackers, the Ra’zac rolled behind some boulders. There was a lull, then

arrows came from the opposite direction. Caught by surprise, the Ra’zac reacted slowly.

Their cloaks were pierced in several places, and a shattered arrow buried itself in one’s

arm.

With a wild cry, the smaller Ra’zac fled toward the road, kicking Eragon viciously in the

side as he passed. His companion hesitated, then grabbed the dagger from the ground and

raced after him. As he left the camp, he hurled the knife at Eragon.

A strange light suddenly burned in Brom’s eyes. He threw himself in front of Eragon, his

mouth open in a soundless snarl. The dagger struck him with a soft thump, and he landed

heavily on his shoulder. His head lolled limply.

“No!” screamed Eragon, though he was doubled over in pain. He heard footsteps, then

his eyes closed and he knew no more.

MURTAGH

For a long while, Eragon was aware only of the burning in his side. Each breath was

painful. It felt as though he had been the one stabbed, not Brom. His sense of time was

skewed; it was hard to tell if weeks had gone by, or only a few minutes. When

consciousness finally came to him, he opened his eyes and peered curiously at a campfire

several feet away. His hands were still tied together, but the drug must have worn off

because he could think clearly again. Saphira, are you injured?

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

either side.

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

chains by yourself.

No.

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

The stranger, dressed in battered clothes, exuded a calm, assured air. In his hands was a

bow, at his side a long hand-and-a-half sword. A white horn bound with silver fittings lay

in his lap, and the hilt of a dagger protruded from his boot. His serious face and fierce

eyes were framed by locks of brown hair. He appeared to be a few years older than

Eragon and perhaps an inch or so taller. Behind him a gray war-horse was picketed. The

stranger watched Saphira warily.

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

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

curiously emotional.

Eragon pulled his hands underneath his legs so they were in front of him. He clenched his

teeth as his side flared with pain. “Why did you help us?”

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

“You know who they are?”

“Yes.”

Eragon concentrated on the ropes that bound his wrists and reached for the magic. He

hesitated, aware of Murtagh’s eyes on him, then decided it didn’t matter. “Jierda!” he

grunted. The ropes snapped off his wrists. He rubbed his hands to get the blood flowing.

Murtagh sucked in his breath. Eragon braced himself and tried to stand, but his ribs

seared with agony. He fell back, gasping between clenched teeth. Murtagh tried to come

to his aid, but Saphira stopped him with a growl. “I would have helped you earlier, but

your dragon wouldn’t let me near you.”

“Her name’s Saphira,” said Eragon tightly. Now let him by! I can’t do this alone. Besides,

he saved our lives. Saphira growled again, but folded her wings and backed away.

Murtagh eyed her flatly as he stepped forward.

He grasped Eragon’s arm, gently pulling him to his feet. Eragon yelped and would have

fallen without support. They went to the fire, where Brom lay on his back. “How is he?”

asked Eragon.

“Bad,” said Murtagh, lowering him to the ground. “The knife went right between his ribs.

You can look at him in a minute, but first we’d better see how much damage the Ra’zac

did to you.” He helped Eragon remove his shirt, then whistled. “Ouch!”

“Ouch,” agreed Eragon weakly. A blotchy bruise extended down his left side. The red,

swollen skin was broken in several places. Murtagh put a hand on the bruise and pressed

lightly. Eragon yelled, and Saphira growled a warning.

Murtagh glanced at Saphira as he grabbed a blanket. “I think you have some broken ribs.

It’s hard to tell, but at least two, maybe more. You’re lucky you’re not coughing up

blood.” He tore the blanket into strips and bound Eragon’s chest.

Eragon slipped the shirt back on. “Yes . . . I’m lucky.” He took a shallow breath, sidled

over to Brom, and saw that Murtagh had cut open the side of his robe to bandage the

wound. With trembling fingers, he undid the bandage.

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

Eragon ignored him and pulled the cloth away from Brom’s side. The wound was short

and thin, belying its depth. Blood streamed out of it. As he had learned when Garrow was

injured, a wound inflicted by the Ra’zac was slow to heal.

He peeled off his gloves while furiously searching his mind for the healing words Brom

had taught him. Help me, Saphira, he implored. I am too weak to do this alone.

Saphira crouched next to him, fixing her eyes on Brom. I am here, Eragon. As her mind

joined his, new strength infused his body. Eragon drew upon their combined power and

focused it on the words. His hand trembled as he held it over the wound. “Waíse heill!”

he said. His palm glowed, and Brom’s skin flowed together, as if it had never been

broken. Murtagh watched the entire process.

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

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

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

“I can only mend what is on the surface. I don’t know enough to fix whatever’s damaged

inside. It’s up to him now. I’ve done all I can.” Eragon closed his eyes for a moment,

utterly weary. “My . . . my head seems to be floating in clouds.”

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

While Murtagh fixed the meal, Eragon wondered who this stranger was. His sword and

bow were of the finest make, as was his horn. Either he was a thief or accustomed to

money—and lots of it. Why was he hunting the Ra’zac? What have they done to make him

an enemy? I wonder if he works for the Varden?

Murtagh handed him a bowl of broth. Eragon spooned it down and asked, “How long has

it been since the Ra’zac fled?”

“A few hours.”

“We have to go before they return with reinforcements.”

“You might be able to travel,” said Murtagh, then gestured at Brom, “but he can’t. You

don’t get up and ride away after being stabbed between the ribs.”

If we make a litter, can you carry Brom with your claws like you did with

Garrow? Eragon asked Saphira.

Yes, but landing will be awkward.

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

“Wait here.” Murtagh left the camp, sword drawn. Eragon hobbled to his bags and picked

up his bow from where it had been thrown by the Ra’zac. He strung it, found his quiver,

then retrieved Zar’roc, which lay hidden in shadow. Last, he got a blanket for the litter.

Murtagh returned with two saplings. He laid them parallel on the ground, then lashed the

blanket between the poles. After he carefully tied Brom to the makeshift litter, Saphira

grasped the saplings and laboriously took flight. “I never thought I would see a sight like

that,” Murtagh said, an odd note in his voice.

As Saphira disappeared into the dark sky, Eragon limped to Cadoc and hoisted himself

painfully into the saddle. “Thanks for helping us. You should leave now. Ride as far

away from us as you can. You’ll be in danger if the Empire finds you with us. We can’t

protect you, and I wouldn’t see harm come to you on our account.”

“A pretty speech,” said Murtagh, grinding out the fire, “but where will you go? Is there a

place nearby that you can rest in safety?”

“No,” admitted Eragon.

Murtagh’s eyes glinted as he fingered the hilt of his sword. “In that case, I think I’ll

accompany you until you’re out of danger. I’ve no better place to be. Besides, if I stay

with you, I might get another shot at the Ra’zac sooner than if I were on my own.

Interesting things are bound to happen around a Rider.”

Eragon wavered, unsure if he should accept help from a complete stranger. Yet he was

unpleasantly aware that he was too weak to force the issue either way. If Murtagh proves

untrustworthy, Saphira can always chase him away. “Join us if you wish.” He shrugged.

Murtagh nodded and mounted his gray war-horse. Eragon grabbed Snowfire’s reins and

rode away from the camp, into the wilderness. An oxbow moon provided wan light, but

he knew that it would only make it easier for the Ra’zac to track them.

Though Eragon wanted to question Murtagh further, he kept silent, conserving his energy

for riding. Near dawn Saphira said, I must stop. My wings are tired and Brom needs

attention. I discovered a good place to stay, about two miles ahead of where you are.

They found her sitting at the base of a broad sandstone formation that curved out of the

ground like a great hill. Its sides were pocked with caves of varying sizes. Similar domes

were scattered across the land. Saphira looked pleased with herself. I found a cave that

can’t be seen from the ground. It’s large enough for all of us, including the horses.

Follow me. She turned and climbed up the sandstone, her sharp claws digging into the

rock. The horses had difficulty, as their shod hooves could not grip the sandstone. Eragon

and Murtagh had to pull and shove the animals for almost an hour before they managed

to reach the cave.

The cavern was a good hundred feet long and more than twenty feet wide, yet it had a

small opening that would protect them from bad weather and prying eyes. Darkness

swallowed the far end, clinging to the walls like mats of soft black wool.

“Impressive,” said Murtagh. “I’ll gather wood for a fire.” Eragon hurried to Brom.

Saphira had set him on a small rock ledge at the rear of the cave. Eragon clasped Brom’s

limp hand and anxiously watched his craggy face. After a few minutes, he sighed and

went to the fire Murtagh had built.

They ate quietly, then tried to give Brom water, but the old man would not drink.

Stymied, they spread out their bedrolls and slept.

LEGACY OF ARIDER

Wake up, Eragon. He stirred and groaned.

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

Arise!

Go away, he grumbled.

Eragon! A bellow rang in the cave. He bolted upright, fumbling for his bow. Saphira was crouched over Brom, who had rolled off the ledge and was thrashing on the cave floor.

His face was contorted in a grimace; his fists were clenched. Eragon rushed over, fearing

the worst.

“Help me hold him down. He’s going to hurt himself!” he cried to Murtagh, clasping

Brom’s arms. His side burned sharply as the old man spasmed. Together they restrained

Brom until his convulsions ceased. Then they carefully returned him to the ledge.

Eragon touched Brom’s forehead. The skin was so hot that the heat could be felt an inch

away. “Get me water and a cloth,” he said worriedly. Murtagh brought them, and Eragon

gently bathed Brom’s face, trying to cool him down. With the cave quiet again, he

noticed the sun shining outside. How long did we sleep? he asked Saphira.

A good while. I’ve been watching Brom for most of that time. He was fine until a minute

ago when he started thrashing. I woke you once he fell to the floor.

He stretched, wincing as his ribs twinged painfully. A hand suddenly gripped his

shoulder. Brom’s eyes snapped opened and fixed a glassy stare on Eragon. “You!” he

gasped. “Bring me the wineskin!”

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

only make you worse.”

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

“I’ll be right back—hold on.” Eragon dashed to the saddlebags and rummaged through

them frantically. “I can’t find it!” he cried, looking around desperately.

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

Eragon grabbed it and returned to Brom. “I have the wine,” he said, kneeling. Murtagh

retreated to the cave’s mouth so they could have privacy.

Brom’s next words were faint and indistinct. “Good . . .” He moved his arm weakly.

“Now . . . wash my right hand with it.”

“What—” Eragon started to ask.

“No questions! I haven’t time.” Mystified, Eragon unstoppered the wineskin and poured

the liquid onto Brom’s palm. He rubbed it into the old man’s skin, spreading it around the

fingers and over the back of the hand. “More,” croaked Brom. Eragon splashed wine onto

his hand again. He scrubbed vigorously as a brown dye floated off Brom’s palm, then

stopped, his mouth agape with amazement. There on Brom’s palm was the gedwëy

ignasia.

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

A painful smile flickered on Brom’s face. “Once upon a time that was true . . . but no

more. When I was young . . . younger than you are now, I was chosen . . . chosen by the

Riders to join their ranks. While they trained me, I became friends with another

apprentice . . . Morzan, before he was a Forsworn.” Eragon gasped—that had been over a

hundred years ago. “But then he betrayed us to Galbatorix . . . and in the fighting at Dorú

Areaba—Vroengard’s city—my young dragon was killed. Her name . . . was Saphira.”

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

Brom laughed. “Because . . . there was no need to.” He stopped. His breathing was

labored; his hands were clenched. “I am old, Eragon . . . so old. Though my dragon was

killed, my life has been longer than most. You don’t know what it is to reach my age,

look back, and realize that you don’t remember much of it; then to look forward and

know that many years still lie ahead of you. . . . After all this time I still grieve for my

Saphira . . . and hate Galbatorix for what he tore from me.” His feverish eyes drilled into

Eragon as he said fiercely, “Don’t let that happen to you. Don’t! Guard Saphira with your

life, for without her it’s hardly worth living.”

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

Brom turned his head to the side. “Perhaps I am rambling.” His gaze passed blindly over

Murtagh, then he focused on Eragon. Brom’s voice grew stronger. “Eragon! I cannot last

much longer. This . . . this is a grievous wound; it saps my strength. I have not the energy

to fight it. . . . Before I go, will you take my blessing?”

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

“It is the way of things . . . I must. Will you take my blessing?” Eragon bowed his head

and nodded, overcome. Brom placed a trembling hand on his brow. “Then I give it to

you. May the coming years bring you great happiness.” He motioned for Eragon to bend

closer. Very quietly, he whispered seven words from the ancient language, then even

more softly told him what they meant. “That is all I can give you. . . . Use them only in

great need.”

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

adventure of all. . . .”

Weeping, Eragon held his hand, comforting him as best he could. His vigil was

unwavering and steadfast, unbroken by food or drink. As the long hours passed, a gray

pallor crept over Brom, and his eyes slowly dimmed. His hands grew icy; the air around

him took on an evil humor. Powerless to help, Eragon could only watch as the Ra’zac’s

wound took its toll.

The evening hours were young and the shadows long when Brom suddenly stiffened.

Eragon called his name and cried for Murtagh’s help, but they could do nothing. As a

barren silence dampened the air, Brom locked his eyes with Eragon’s. Then contentment

spread across the old man’s face, and a whisper of breath escaped his lips. And so it was

that Brom the storyteller died.

With shaking fingers, Eragon closed Brom’s eyes and stood. Saphira raised her head

behind him and roared mournfully at the sky, keening her lamentation. Tears rolled down

Eragon’s cheeks as a sense of horrible loss bled through him. Haltingly, he said, “We

have to bury him.”

“We might be seen,” warned Murtagh.

“I don’t care!”

Murtagh hesitated, then bore Brom’s body out of the cave, along with his sword and staff.

Saphira followed them. “To the top,” Eragon said thickly, indicating the crown of the

sandstone hill.

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

“I can do it.”

Eragon climbed onto the smooth hilltop, struggling because of his ribs. There, Murtagh

lay Brom on the stone.

Eragon wiped his eyes and fixed his gaze on the sandstone. Gesturing with his hand, he

said, “Moi stenr!” The stone rippled. It flowed like water, forming a body-length

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

around it.

They laid Brom inside the unfinished sandstone vault with his staff and sword. Stepping

back, Eragon again shaped the stone with magic. It joined over Brom’s motionless face

and flowed upward into a tall faceted spire. As a final tribute, Eragon set runes into the

stone:

HERELIESBROM

Who was a Dragon Rider

And like a father

To me.

May his name live on in glory.

Then he bowed his head and mourned freely. He stood like a living statue until evening,

when light faded from the land.

That night he dreamed of the imprisoned woman again.

He could tell that something was wrong with her. Her breathing was irregular, and she

shook—whether from cold or pain, he did not know. In the semidarkness of the cell, the

only thing clearly illuminated was her hand, which hung over the edge of the cot. A dark

liquid dripped from the tips of her fingers. Eragon knew it was blood.

DIAMONDTOMB

When Eragon woke, his eyes were gritty, his body stiff. The cave was empty except for

the horses. The litter was gone; no sign of Brom remained. He walked to the entrance and

sat on the pitted sandstone. So the witch Angela was correct—there was a death in my

future, he thought, staring bleakly at the land. The topaz sun brought a desert heat to the early morning.

A tear slid down his listless face and evaporated in the sunlight, leaving a salty crust on

his skin. He closed his eyes and absorbed the warmth, emptying his mind. With a

fingernail, he aimlessly scratched the sandstone. When he looked, he saw that he had

written Why me?

He was still there when Murtagh climbed up to the cave, carrying a pair of rabbits.

Without a word he seated himself by Eragon. “How are you?” he asked.

“Very ill.”

Murtagh considered him thoughtfully. “Will you recover?” Eragon shrugged. After a few

minutes of reflection, Murtagh said, “I dislike asking this at such a time, but I must know

. . . Is your Brom the Brom? The one who helped steal a dragon egg from the king, chased it across the Empire, and killed Morzan in a duel? I heard you say his name, and I read

the inscription you put on his grave, but I must know for certain, Was that he?”

“It was,” said Eragon softly. A troubled expression settled on Murtagh’s face. “How do

you know all that? You talk about things that are secret to most, and you were trailing the

Ra’zac right when we needed help. Are you one of the Varden?”

Murtagh’s eyes became inscrutable orbs. “I’m running away, like you.” There was

restrained sorrow in his words. “I do not belong to either the Varden or the Empire. Nor

do I owe allegiance to any man but myself. As for my rescuing you, I will admit that I’ve

heard whispered tales of a new Rider and reasoned that by following the Ra’zac I might

discover if they were true.”

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

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

But Brom would still be alive. . . . I wish he were here. He would know whether to trust

Murtagh. Eragon remembered how Brom had sensed Trevor’s intentions in Daret and

wondered if he could do the same with Murtagh. He reached for Murtagh’s

consciousness, but his probe abruptly ran into an iron-hard wall, which he tried to

circumvent. Murtagh’s entire mind was fortified. How did he learn to do that? Brom said

that few people, if any, could keep others out of their mind without training. So who is

Murtagh to have this ability ? Pensive and lonely, Eragon asked, “Where is Saphira?”

“I don’t know,” said Murtagh. “She followed me for a time when I went hunting, then

flew off on her own. I haven’t seen her since before noon.” Eragon rocked onto his feet

and returned to the cave. Murtagh followed. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not sure.” And I don’t want to think about it either. He rolled up his blankets and tied them to Cadoc’s saddlebags. His ribs hurt. Murtagh went to prepare the rabbits. As

Eragon shifted things in his bags, he uncovered Zar’roc. The red sheath glinted brightly.

He took out the sword . . . weighed it in his hands.

He had never carried Zar’roc nor used it in combat—except when he and Brom had

sparred—because he had not wanted people to see it. That concerned Eragon no more.

The Ra’zac had seemed surprised and frightened by the sword; that was more than

enough reason for him to wear it. With a shudder he pulled off his bow and belted on

Zar’roc. From this moment on, I’ll live by the sword. Let the whole world see what I am. I

have no fear. I am a Rider now, fully and completely.

He sorted through Brom’s bags but found only clothes, a few odd items, and a small

pouch of coins. Eragon took the map of Alagaësia and put the bags away, then crouched

by the fire. Murtagh’s eyes narrowed as he looked up from the rabbit he was skinning.

“That sword. May I see it?” he asked, wiping his hands.

Eragon hesitated, reluctant to relinquish the weapon for even a moment, then nodded.

Murtagh examined the symbol on the blade intently. His face darkened. “Where did you

get this?”

“Brom gave it to me. Why?”

Murtagh shoved the sword back and crossed his arms angrily. He was breathing hard.

“That sword,” he said with emotion, “was once as well known as its owner. The last

Rider to carry it was Morzan—a brutal, savage man. I thought you were a foe of the

Empire, yet here I find you bearing one of the Forsworn’s bloody swords!”

Eragon stared at Zar’roc with shock. He realized that Brom must have taken it from

Morzan after they fought in Gil’ead. “Brom never told me where it came from,” he said

truthfully. “I had no idea it was Morzan’s.”

“He never told you?” asked Murtagh, a note of disbelief in his voice. Eragon shook his

head. “That’s strange. I can think of no reason for him to have concealed it.”

“Neither can I. But then, he kept many secrets,” said Eragon. It felt unsettling to hold the

sword of the man who had betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix. This blade probably killed

many Riders in its time, he thought with revulsion. And worse, dragons! “Even so, I’m going to carry it. I don’t have a sword of my own. Until such time as I get one, I’ll use

Zar’roc.”

Murtagh flinched as Eragon said the name. “It’s your choice,” he said. He returned to

skinning, keeping his gaze focused downward.

When the meal was ready, Eragon ate slowly, though he was quite hungry. The hot food

made him feel better. As they scraped out their bowls, he said, “I have to sell my horse.”

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

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

it for him.”

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

some town or village.”

“We?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh looked at him sideways in a calculating way. “You won’t want to stay here for

much longer. If the Ra’zac are nearby, Brom’s tomb will be like a beacon for them.”

Eragon had not thought of that. “And your ribs are going to take time to heal. I know you

can defend yourself with magic, but you need a companion who can lift things and use a

sword. I’m asking to travel with you, at least for the time being. But I must warn you, the

Empire is searching for me. There’ll be blood over it eventually.”

Eragon laughed weakly and found himself crying because it hurt so much. Once his

breath was back, he said, “I don’t care if the entire army is searching for you. You’re

right. I do need help. I would be glad to have you along, though I have to talk to Saphira

about it. But I have to warn you, Galbatorix just might send the entire army after me. You won’t be any safer with Saphira and me than if you were on your own.”

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

“Good.” Eragon smiled with gratitude.

While they spoke, Saphira crawled into the cave and greeted Eragon. She was glad to see

him, but there was deep sadness in her thoughts and words. She laid her big blue head on

the floor and asked, Are you well again?

Not quite.

I miss the old one.

As do I . . . I never suspected that he was a Rider. Brom! He really was an old man—as

old as the Forsworn. Everything he taught me about magic he must have learned from the

Riders themselves.

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

And you didn’t tell me? Why?

He asked me not to, s he said simply.

Eragon decided not to make an issue of it. Saphira never meant to hurt him . Brom kept

more than that secret, he told her, then explained about Zar’roc and Murtagh’s reaction to it. I understand now why Brom didn’t explain Zar’roc’s origins when he gave it to me. If

he had, I probably would have run away from him at the first opportunity.

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

butchery tool.

Perhaps. Saphira, where does our path go from here? Murtagh offered to come with us. I

don’t know his past, but he seems honest enough. Should we go to the Varden now? Only

I don’t know how to find them. Brom never told us.

He told me, said Saphira.

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

Her scales rustled over the dry rock as she stood above him, eyes profound. After we left

Teirm and were attacked by the Urgals, he told me many things, some of which I will not

speak of unless necessary. He was concerned about his own death and what would

happen to you after it. One fact he imparted to me was the name of a man, Dormnad, who

lives in Gil’ead. He can help us find the Varden. Brom also wanted you to know that of

all the people in Alagaësia, he believed you were the best suited to inherit the Riders’

legacy.

Tears welled in Eragon’s eyes. This was the highest praise he could have ever received

from Brom. A responsibility I will bear honorably.

Good.

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

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

descriptions, willingly or not.

He agreed with her, then told Saphira about his dream. What I saw disturbed me. I feel

that time is running out for her; something dreadful is going to happen soon. She’s in

mortal danger—I’m sure of it—but I don’t know how to find her! She could be anywhere.

What does your heart say? asked Saphira.

My heart died a while back, said Eragon with a hint of black humor. However, I think we should go north to Gil’ead. With any luck, one of the towns or cities along our path is

where this woman is being held. I’m afraid that my next dream of her will show a grave. I

couldn’t stand that.

Why?

I’m not sure, he said, shrugging. It’s just that when I see her, I feel as if she’s precious and shouldn’t be lost. . . . It’s very strange. Saphira opened her long mouth and laughed

silently, fangs gleaming. What is it? snapped Eragon. She shook her head and quietly

padded away.

Eragon grumbled to himself, then told Murtagh what they had decided. Murtagh said, “If

you find this Dormnad and then continue on to the Varden, I will leave you.

Encountering the Varden would be as dangerous for me as walking unarmed into

Urû’baen with a fanfare of trumpets to announce my arrival.”

“We won’t have to part anytime soon,” said Eragon. “It’s a long way to Gil’ead.” His

voice cracked slightly, and he squinted at the sun to distract himself. “We should leave

before the day grows any older.”

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

“I have to do something or I’ll go crazy,” said Eragon brusquely. “Sparring, practicing

magic, or sitting around twiddling my thumbs aren’t good options right now, so I choose

to ride.”

They doused the fire, packed, and led the horses out of the cave. Eragon handed Cadoc’s

and Snowfire’s reins to Murtagh, saying, “Go on, I’ll be right down.” Murtagh began the

slow descent from the cave.

Eragon struggled up the sandstone, resting when his side made it impossible to breathe.

When he reached the top, he found Saphira already there. They stood together before

Brom’s grave and paid their last respects. I can’t believe he’s gone . . . forever. As Eragon turned to depart, Saphira snaked out her long neck to touch the tomb with the tip of her

nose. Her sides vibrated as a low humming filled the air.

The sandstone around her nose shimmered like gilded dew, turning clear with dancing

silver highlights. Eragon watched in wonder as tendrils of white diamond twisted over the

tomb’s surface in a web of priceless filigree. Sparkling shadows were cast on the ground,

reflecting splashes of brilliant colors that shifted dazzlingly as the sandstone continued to

change. With a satisfied snort, Saphira stepped back and examined her handiwork.

The sculpted sandstone mausoleum of moments before had transformed into a sparkling

gemstone vault—under which Brom’s untouched face was visible. Eragon gazed with

yearning at the old man, who seemed to be only sleeping. “What did you do?” he asked

Saphira with awe.

I gave him the only gift I could. Now time will not ravage him. He can rest in peace for

eternity.

Thank you. Eragon put a hand on her side, and they left together.

CAPTURE ATGIL’EAD

Riding was extremely painful for Eragon—his broken ribs prevented them from going

faster than a walk, and it was impossible for him to breathe deeply without a burst of

agony. Nevertheless, he refused to stop. Saphira flew close by, her mind linked with his

for solace and strength.

Murtagh rode confidently beside Cadoc, flowing smoothly with his horse’s movements.

Eragon watched the gray animal for a while. “You have a beautiful horse. What’s his

name?”

“Tornac, after the man who taught me how to fight.” Murtagh patted the horse’s side.

“He was given to me when he was just a foal. You’d be hard pressed to find a more

courageous and intelligent animal in all of Alagaësia, Saphira excepted, of course.”

“He is a magnificent beast,” said Eragon admiringly.

Murtagh laughed. “Yes, but Snowfire is as close to his match as I’ve ever seen.”

They covered only a short distance that day, yet Eragon was glad to be on the move

again. It kept his mind off other, more morbid matters. They were riding through

unsettled land. The road to Dras-Leona was several leagues to their left. They would skirt

the city by a wide margin on the way to Gil’ead, which was almost as far to the north as

Carvahall.

They sold Cadoc in a small village. As the horse was led away by his new owner, Eragon

regretfully pocketed the few coins he had gained from the transaction. It was difficult to

relinquish Cadoc after crossing half of Alagaësia—and outracing Urgals—on him.

The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. Eragon was

pleased to find that he and Murtagh shared many of the same interests; they spent hours

debating the finer points of archery and hunting.

There was one subject, however, they avoided discussing by unspoken consent: their

pasts. Eragon did not explain how he had found Saphira, met Brom, or where he came

from. Murtagh was likewise mute as to why the Empire was chasing him. It was a simple

arrangement, but it worked.

Yet because of their proximity, it was inevitable that they learned about each other.

Eragon was intrigued by Murtagh’s familiarity with the power struggles and politics

within the Empire. He seemed to know what every noble and courtier was doing and how

it affected everyone else. Eragon listened carefully, suspicions whirling through his mind.

The first week went by without any sign of the Ra’zac, which allayed some of Eragon’s

fears. Even so, they still kept watches at night. Eragon had expected to encounter Urgals

on the way to Gil’ead, but they found no trace of them. I thought these remote places

would be teeming with monsters, he mused. Still, I’m not one to complain if they’ve gone elsewhere.

He dreamed of the woman no more. And though he tried to scry her, he saw only an

empty cell. Whenever they passed a town or city, he checked to see if it had a jail. If it

did, he would disguise himself and visit it, but she was not to be found. His disguises

became increasingly elaborate as he saw notices featuring his name and description—and

offering a substantial reward for his capture—posted in various towns.

Their travels north forced them toward the capital, Urû’baen. It was a heavily populated

area, which made it difficult to escape notice. Soldiers patrolled the roads and guarded

the bridges. It took them several tense, irritable days to skirt the capital.

Once they were safely past Urû’baen, they found themselves on the edge of a vast plain.

It was the same one that Eragon had crossed after leaving Palancar Valley, except now he

was on the opposite side. They kept to the perimeter of the plain and continued north,

following the Ramr River.

Eragon’s sixteenth birthday came and went during this time. At Carvahall a celebration

would have been held for his entrance into manhood, but in the wilderness he did not

even mention it to Murtagh.

At nearly six months of age, Saphira was much larger. Her wings were massive; every

inch of them was needed to lift her muscular body and thick bones. The fangs that jutted

from her jaw were nearly as thick around as Eragon’s fist, their points as sharp as

Zar’roc.

The day finally came when Eragon unwrapped his side for the last time. His ribs had

healed completely, leaving him with only a small scar where the Ra’zac’s boot had cut

his side. As Saphira watched, he stretched slowly, then with increasing vigor when there

was no pain. He flexed his muscles, pleased. In an earlier time he would have smiled, but

after Brom’s death, such expressions did not come easily.

He tugged his tunic on and walked back to the small fire they had made. Murtagh sat next

to it, whittling a piece of wood. Eragon drew Zar’roc. Murtagh tensed, though his face

remained calm. “Now that I am strong enough, would you like to spar?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh tossed the wood to the side. “With sharpened swords? We could kill each

other.”

“Here, give me your sword,” said Eragon. Murtagh hesitated, then handed over his long

hand-and-a-half sword. Eragon blocked the edges with magic, the way Brom had taught

him. While Murtagh examined the blade, Eragon said, “I can undo that once we’re

finished.”

Murtagh checked the balance of his sword. Satisfied, he said, “It will do.” Eragon safed

Zar’roc, settled into a crouch, then swung at Murtagh’s shoulder. Their swords met in

midair. Eragon disengaged with a flourish, thrust, and then riposted as Murtagh parried,

dancing away.

He’s fast! thought Eragon.

They struggled back and forth, trying to batter each other down. After a particularly

intense series of blows, Murtagh started laughing. Not only was it impossible for either of

them to gain an advantage, but they were so evenly matched that they tired at the same

rate. Acknowledging with grins each other’s skill, they fought on until their arms were

leaden and sweat poured off their sides.

Finally Eragon called, “Enough, halt!” Murtagh stopped in mid-blow and sat down with a

gasp. Eragon staggered to the ground, his chest heaving. None of his fights with Brom

had been this fierce.

As he gulped air, Murtagh exclaimed, “You’re amazing! I’ve studied swordplay all my

life, but never have I fought one like you. You could be the king’s weapon master if you

wanted to.”

“You’re just as good,” observed Eragon, still panting. “The man who taught you, Tornac,

could make a fortune with a fencing school. People would come from all parts of

Alagaësia to learn from him.”

“He’s dead,” said Murtagh shortly.

“I’m sorry.”

Thus it became their custom to fight in the evening, which kept them lean and fit, like a

pair of matched blades. With his return to health, Eragon also resumed practicing magic.

Murtagh was curious about it and soon revealed that he knew a surprising amount about

how it worked, though he lacked the precise details and could not use it himself.

Whenever Eragon practiced speaking in the ancient language, Murtagh would listen

quietly, occasionally asking what a word meant.

On the outskirts of Gil’ead they stopped the horses side by side. It had taken them nearly

a month to reach it, during which time spring had finally nudged away the remnants of

winter. Eragon had felt himself changing during the trip, growing stronger and calmer.

He still thought about Brom and spoke about him with Saphira, but for the most part he

tried not to awaken painful memories.

From a distance they could see the city was a rough, barbaric place, filled with log houses

and yapping dogs. There was a rambling stone fortress at its center. The air was hazy

with blue smoke. The place seemed more like a temporary trading post than a permanent

city. Five miles beyond it was the hazy outline of Isenstar Lake.

They decided to camp two miles from the city, for safety. While their dinner simmered,

Murtagh said, “I’m not sure you should be the one to go into Gil’ead.”

“Why? I can disguise myself well enough,” said Eragon. “And Dormnad will want to see

the gedwëy ignasia as proof that I really am a Rider.”

“Perhaps,” said Murtagh, “but the Empire wants you much more than me. If I’m

captured, I could eventually escape. But if you are taken, they’ll drag you to the king, where you’ll be in for a slow death by torture—unless you join him. Plus, Gil’ead is one

of the army’s major staging points. Those aren’t houses out there; they’re barracks.

Going in there would be like handing yourself to the king on a gilded platter.”

Eragon asked Saphira for her opinion. She wrapped her tail around his legs and lay next

to him. You shouldn’t have to ask me; he speaks sense. There are certain words I can give

him that will convince Dormnad of his truthfulness. And Murtagh’s right; if anyone is to

risk capture it should be him, because he would live through it.

He grimaced. I don’t like letting him put himself in danger for us. “All right, you can go,”

he said reluctantly. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m coming after you.”

Murtagh laughed. “That would be fit for a legend: how a lone Rider took on the king’s

army single-handedly.” He chuckled again and stood. “Is there anything I should know

before going?”

“Shouldn’t we rest and wait until tomorrow?” asked Eragon cautiously.

“Why? The longer we stay here, the greater the chance that we’ll be discovered. If this

Dormnad can take you to the Varden, then he needs to be found as quickly as possible.

Neither of us should remain near Gil’ead longer than a few days.”

Again wisdom flies from his mouth, commented Saphira dryly. She told Eragon what

should be said to Dormnad, and he relayed the information to Murtagh.

“Very well,” said Murtagh, adjusting his sword. “Unless there’s trouble, I’ll be back

within a couple of hours. Make sure there’s some food left for me.” With a wave of his

hand, he jumped onto Tornac and rode away. Eragon sat by the fire, tapping Zar’roc’s

pommel apprehensively.

Hours passed, but Murtagh did not return. Eragon paced around the fire, Zar’roc in hand,

while Saphira watched Gil’ead attentively. Only her eyes moved. Neither of them voiced

their worries, though Eragon unobtrusively prepared to leave—in case a detachment of

soldiers left the city and headed toward their camp.

Look, snapped Saphira.

Eragon swiveled toward Gil’ead, alert. He saw a distant horseman exit the city and ride

furiously toward their camp. I don’t like this, he said as he climbed onto Saphira. Be ready to fly.

I’m prepared for more than that.

As the rider approached, Eragon recognized Murtagh bent low over Tornac. No one

seemed to be pursuing him, but he did not slow his reckless pace. He galloped into the

camp and jumped to the ground, drawing his sword. “What’s wrong?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh scowled. “Did anyone follow me from Gil’ead?”

“We didn’t see anyone.”

“Good. Then let me eat before I explain. I’m starving.” He seized a bowl and began

eating with gusto. After a few sloppy bites, he said through a full mouth, “Dormnad has

agreed to meet us outside Gil’ead at sunrise tomorrow. If he’s satisfied you really are a

Rider and that it’s not a trap, he’ll take you to the Varden.”

“Where are we supposed to meet him?” asked Eragon.

Murtagh pointed west. “On a small hill across the road.”

“So what happened?”

Murtagh spooned more food into his bowl. “It’s a rather simple thing, but all the more

deadly because of it: I was seen in the street by someone who knows me. I did the only

thing I could and ran away. It was too late, though; he recognized me.”

It was unfortunate, but Eragon was unsure how bad it really was. “Since I don’t know

your friend, I have to ask: Will he tell anyone?”

Murtagh gave a strained laugh. “If you had met him, that wouldn’t need answering. His

mouth is loosely hinged and hangs open all the time, vomiting whatever happens to be in

his mind. The question isn’t whether he will tell people, but whom he will tell. If word of this reaches the wrong ears, we’ll be in trouble.”

“I doubt that soldiers will be sent to search for you in the dark,” Eragon pointed out. “We

can at least count on being safe until morning, and by then, if all goes well, we’ll be

leaving with Dormnad.”

Murtagh shook his head. “No, only you will accompany him. As I said before, I won’t go

to the Varden.”

Eragon stared at him unhappily. He wanted Murtagh to stay. They had become friends

during their travels, and he was loath to tear that apart. He started to protest, but Saphira

hushed him and said gently, Wait until tomorrow. Now is not the time.

Very well, he said glumly. They talked until the stars were bright in the sky, then slept as Saphira took the first watch.

Eragon woke two hours before dawn, his palm tingling. Everything was still and quiet,

but something sought his attention, like an itch in his mind. He buckled on Zar’roc and

stood, careful not to make a sound. Saphira looked at him curiously, her large eyes

bright. What is it? she asked.

I don’t know, said Eragon. He saw nothing amiss.

Saphira sniffed the air curiously. She hissed a little and lifted her head . I smell horses

nearby, but they’re not moving. They reek with an unfamiliar stench.

Eragon crept to Murtagh and shook his shoulder. Murtagh woke with a start, yanked a

dagger from under his blankets, then looked at Eragon quizzically. Eragon motioned for

him to be silent, whispering, “There are horses close by.”

Murtagh wordlessly drew his sword. They quietly stationed themselves on either side of

Saphira, prepared for an attack. As they waited, the morning star rose in the east. A

squirrel chattered.

Then an angry snarl from behind made Eragon spin around, sword held high. A broad

Urgal stood at the edge of the camp, carrying a mattock with a nasty spike. Where did he

come from? We haven’t seen their tracks anywhere! thought Eragon. The Urgal roared

and waved his weapon, but did not charge.

“Brisingr!” barked Eragon, stabbing out with magic. The Urgal’s face contorted with

terror as he exploded in a flash of blue light. Blood splattered Eragon, and a brown mass

flew through the air. Behind him, Saphira bugled with alarm and reared. Eragon twisted

around. While he had been occupied with the first Urgal, a group of them had run up

from the side. Of all the stupid tricks to fall for!

Steel clashed loudly as Murtagh attacked the Urgals. Eragon tried to join him but was

blocked by four of the monsters. The first one swung a sword at his shoulder. He ducked

the blow and killed the Urgal with magic. He caught a second one in the throat with

Zar’roc, wheeled wildly, and slashed a third through the heart. As he did, the fourth Urgal

rushed at him, swinging a heavy club.

Eragon saw him coming and tried to lift his sword to block the club, but was a second too

slow. As the club came down on his head, he screamed, “Fly, Saphira!” A burst of light

filled his eyes and he lost consciousness.

DUSÚNDAVARFREOHR

The first things Eragon noticed were that he was warm and dry, his cheek was pressed

against rough fabric, and his hands were unbound. He stirred, but it was minutes before

he was able to push himself upright and examine his surroundings.

He was sitting in a cell on a narrow, bumpy cot. A barred window was set high in the

wall. The iron-bound door with a small window in its top half, barred like the one in the

wall, was shut securely.

Dried blood cracked on Eragon’s face when he moved. It took him a moment to

remember that it was not his. His head hurt horribly—which was to be expected,

considering the blow he had taken—and his mind was strangely fuzzy. He tried to use

magic, but could not concentrate well enough to remember any of the ancient words. They

must have drugged me, he finally decided.

With a groan he got up, missing the familiar weight of Zar’roc on his hip, and lurched to

the window in the wall. He managed to see out of it by standing on his toes. It took a

minute for his eyes to adjust to the bright light outside. The window was level with the

ground. A street full of busy people ran past the side of his cell, beyond which were rows

of identical log houses.

Feeling weak, Eragon slid to the floor and stared at it blankly. What he had seen outside

disturbed him, but he was unsure why. Cursing his sluggish thinking, he leaned back his

head and tried to clear his mind. A man entered the room and set a tray of food and a

pitcher of water on the cot. Wasn’t that nice of him? thought Eragon, smiling pleasantly.

He took a couple of bites of the thin cabbage soup and stale bread, but was barely able to

stomach it. I wish he had brought me something better, he complained, dropping the

spoon.

He suddenly realized what was wrong. I was captured by Urgals, not men! How did I end

up here? His befuddled brain grappled with the paradox unsuccessfully. With a mental

shrug he filed the discovery away for a time when he would know what to do with it.

He sat on the cot and gazed into the distance. Hours later more food was brought in. And I

was just getting hungry, he thought thickly. This time he was able to eat without feeling sick. When he finished, he decided it was time for a nap. After all, he was on a bed; what

else was he going to do?

His mind drifted off; sleep began to envelop him. Then a gate clanged open somewhere,

and the din of steel-shod boots marching on a stone floor filled the air. The noise grew

louder and louder until it sounded like someone banging a pot inside Eragon’s head. He

grumbled to himself. Can’t they let me rest in peace? Fuzzy curiosity slowly overcame his exhaustion, so he dragged himself to the door, blinking like an owl.

Through the window he saw a wide hallway nearly ten yards across. The opposing wall

was lined with cells similar to his own. A column of soldiers marched through the hall,

their swords drawn and ready. Every man was dressed in matching armor; their faces

bore the same hard expression, and their feet came down on the floor with mechanical

precision, never missing a beat. The sound was hypnotic. It was an impressive display of

force.

Eragon watched the soldiers until he grew bored. Just then he noticed a break in the

middle of the column. Carried between two burly men was an unconscious woman.

Her long midnight-black hair obscured her face, despite a leather strip bound around her

head to hold the tresses back. She was dressed in dark leather pants and shirt. Wrapped

around her slim waist was a shiny belt, from which hung an empty sheath on her right

hip. Knee-high boots covered her calves and small feet.

Her head lolled to the side. Eragon gasped, feeling like he had been struck in the

stomach. She was the woman from his dreams. Her sculpted face was as perfect as a

painting. Her round chin, high cheekbones, and long eyelashes gave her an exotic look.

The only mar in her beauty was a scrape along her jaw; nevertheless, she was the fairest

woman he had ever seen.

Eragon’s blood burned as he looked at her. Something awoke in him—something he had

never felt before. It was like an obsession, except stronger, almost a fevered madness.

Then the woman’s hair shifted, revealing pointed ears. A chill crept over him. She was an

elf.

The soldiers continued marching, taking her from his sight. Next strode a tall, proud man,

a sable cape billowing behind him. His face was deathly white; his hair was red. Red like

blood.

As he walked by Eragon’s cell, the man turned his head and looked squarely at him with

maroon eyes. His upper lip pulled back in a feral smile, revealing teeth filed to points.

Eragon shrank back. He knew what the man was. A Shade.So help me . . . a Shade. The

procession continued, and the Shade vanished from view.

Eragon sank to the floor, hugging himself. Even in his bewildered state, he knew that the

presence of a Shade meant that evil was loose in the land. Whenever they appeared,

rivers of blood were sure to follow. What is a Shade doing here? The soldiers should have

killed him on sight! Then his thoughts returned to the elf-woman, and he was grasped by strange emotions again.

I have to escape. But with his mind clouded, his determination quickly faded. He returned to the cot. By the time the hallway fell silent, he was fast asleep.

As soon as Eragon opened his eyes, he knew something was different. It was easier for

him to think; he realized that he was in Gil’ead. They made a mistake; the drug’s wearing

off! Hopeful, he tried to contact Saphira and use magic, but both activities were still beyond his reach. A pit of worry twisted inside him as he wondered if she and Murtagh

had managed to escape. He stretched his arms and looked out the window. The city was

just awakening; the street was empty except for two beggars.

He reached for the water pitcher, ruminating about the elf and Shade. As he started to

drink, he noticed that the water had a faint odor, as if it contained a few drops of rancid

perfume. Grimacing, he set the pitcher down. The drug must be in there and maybe in the

food as well! He remembered that when the Ra’zac had drugged him, it had taken hours

to wear off. If I can keep from drinking and eating for long enough, I should be able to

use magic. Then I can rescue the elf. . . . The thought made him smile. He sat in a corner, dreaming about how it could be done.

The portly jailer entered the cell an hour later with a tray of food. Eragon waited until he

departed, then carried the tray to the window. The meal was composed only of bread,

cheese, and an onion, but the smell made his stomach grumble hungrily. Resigning

himself to a miserable day, he shoved the food out the window and onto the street, hoping

that no one would notice.

Eragon devoted himself to overcoming the drug’s effects. He had difficulty concentrating

for any length of time, but as the day progressed, his mental acuity increased. He began

to remember several of the ancient words, though nothing happened when he uttered

them. He wanted to scream with frustration.

When lunch was delivered, he pushed it out the window after his breakfast. His hunger

was distracting, but it was the lack of water that taxed him most. The back of his throat

was parched. Thoughts of drinking cool water tortured him as each breath dried his

mouth and throat a bit more. Even so, he forced himself to ignore the pitcher.

He was diverted from his discomfort by a commotion in the hall. A man argued in a loud

voice, “You can’t go in there! The orders were clear: no one is to see him!”

“Really? Will you be the one to die stopping me, Captain?” cut in a smooth voice.

There was a subdued, “No . . . but the king—”

“I will handle the king,” interrupted the second person. “Now, unlock the door.”

After a pause, keys jangled outside Eragon’s cell. He tried to adopt a languorous

expression. I have to act like I don’t understand what’s going on. I can’t show surprise,

no matter what this person says.

The door opened. His breath caught as he looked into the Shade’s face. It was like gazing

at a death mask or a polished skull with skin pulled over it to give the appearance of life.

“Greetings,” said the Shade with a cold smile, showing his filed teeth. “I’ve waited a long

time to meet you.”

“Who—who’re you?” asked Eragon, slurring his words.

“No one of consequence,” answered the Shade, his maroon eyes alight with controlled

menace. He sat with a flourish of his cloak. “My name does not matter to one in your

position. It wouldn’t mean a thing to you anyway. It’s you that I’m interested in. Who are

you?”

The question was posed innocently enough, but Eragon knew there had to be a catch or

trap in it, though it eluded him. He pretended to struggle over the question for a while,

then slowly said, frowning, “I’m not sure. . . . M’name’s Eragon, but that’s not all I am, is

it?”

The Shade’s narrow lips stretched tautly over his mouth as he laughed sharply. “No, it

isn’t. You have an interesting mind, my young Rider.” He leaned forward. The skin on

his forehead was thin and translucent. “It seems I must be more direct. What is your

name?”

“Era—”

“No! Not that one.” The Shade cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you have

another one, one that you use only rarely?”

He wants my true name so he can control me! realized Eragon. But I can’t tell him. I don’t even know it myself. He thought quickly, trying to invent a deception that would conceal his ignorance. What if I made up a name? He hesitated—it could easily give him away—

then raced to create a name that would withstand scrutiny. As he was about to utter it, he

decided to take a chance and try to scare the Shade. He deftly switched a few letters, then

nodded foolishly and said, “Brom told it to me once. It was . . .” The pause stretched for a

few seconds, then his face brightened as he appeared to remember. “It was Du Súndavar

Freohr.” Which meant almost literally “death of the shadows.”

A grim chill settled over the cell as the Shade sat motionless, eyes veiled. He seemed to

be deep in thought, pondering what he had learned. Eragon wondered if he had dared too

much. He waited until the Shade stirred before asking ingenuously, “Why are you here?”

The Shade looked at him with contempt in his red eyes and smiled. “To gloat, of course.

What use is a victory if one cannot enjoy it?” There was confidence in his voice, but he

seemed uneasy, as if his plans had been disrupted. He stood suddenly. “I must attend to

certain matters, but while I am gone you would do well to think on who you would rather

serve: a Rider who betrayed your own order or a fellow man like me, though one skilled

in arcane arts. When the time comes to choose, there will be no middle ground.” He

turned to leave, then glanced at Eragon’s water pitcher and stopped, his face granite hard.

“Captain!” he snapped.

A broad-shouldered man rushed into the cell, sword in hand. “What is it, my lord?” he

asked, alarmed.

“Put that toy away,” instructed the Shade. He turned to Eragon and said in a deadly quiet

voice, “The boy hasn’t been drinking his water. Why is that?”

“I talked with the jailer earlier. Every bowl and plate was scraped clean.”

“Very well,” said the Shade, mollified. “But make sure that he starts drinking again.” He

leaned toward the captain and murmured into his ear. Eragon caught the last few words,

“. . . extra dose, just in case.” The captain nodded. The Shade returned his attention to

Eragon. “We will talk again tomorrow when I am not so pressed for time. You should

know, I have an endless fascination for names. I will greatly enjoy discussing yours

in much greater detail.”

The way he said it gave Eragon a sinking feeling.

Once they left, he lay on the cot and closed his eyes. Brom’s lessons proved their worth

now; he relied on them to keep himself from panicking and to reassure

himself. Everything has been provided for me; I only have to take advantage of it. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching soldiers.

Apprehensive, he went to the door and saw two soldiers dragging the elf down the

hallway. When he could see her no more, Eragon slumped to the floor and tried to touch

the magic again. Oaths flew from his lips when it eluded his grasp.

He looked out at the city and ground his teeth. It was only midafternoon. Taking a

calming breath, he tried to wait patiently.

FIGHTINGSHADOWS

It was dark in Eragon’s cell when he sat up with a start, electrified. The wrinkle had

shifted! He had felt the magic at the edge of his consciousness for hours, but every time

he tried to use it, nothing happened. Eyes bright with nervous energy, he clenched his

hands and said, “Nagz reisa!” With a flap, the cot’s blanket flew into the air and

crumpled into a ball the size of his fist. It landed on the floor with a soft thump.

Exhilarated, Eragon stood. He was weak from his enforced fast, but his excitement

overcame his hunger. Now for the real test. He reached out with his mind and felt the lock on the door. Instead of trying to break or cut it, he simply pushed its internal mechanism

into the unlocked position. With a click, the door creaked inward.

When he had first used magic to kill the Urgals in Yazuac, it had consumed nearly all of

his strength, but he had grown much stronger since then. What once would have

exhausted him now only tired him slightly.

He cautiously stepped into the hall. I have to find Zar’roc and the elf. She must be in one of these cells, but there isn’t time to look in them all. As for Zar’roc, the Shade might

have it with him. He realized that his thinking was still muddled. Why am I out here? I could escape right now if I went back into the cell and opened the window with magic.

But then I wouldn’t be able to rescue the elf. . . . Saphira, where are you? I need your

help. He silently berated himself for not contacting her sooner. That should have been the first thing he did after getting his power back.

Her reply came with surprising alacrity. Eragon! I’m over Gil’ead. Don’t do anything.

Murtagh is on the way.

What are— Footsteps interrupted him. He spun around, crouching as a squad of six

soldiers marched into the hall. They halted abruptly, eyes flicking between Eragon and

the open cell door. Blood drained from their faces. Good, they know who I am.Maybe I

can scare them off so we won’t have to fight.

“Charge!” yelled one of the soldiers, running forward. The rest of the men drew their

blades and pounded down the hall.

It was madness to fight six men when he was unarmed and weak, but the thought of the

elf kept him in place. He could not force himself to abandon her. Uncertain if the effort

would leave him standing, he pulled on his power and raised his hand, the gedwëy

ignasia glowing. Fear showed in the soldiers’ eyes, but they were hardened warriors and

did not slow. As Eragon opened his mouth to pronounce the fatal words, there was a low

buzz, a flicker of motion. One of the men crashed to the floor with an arrow in his back.

Two more were struck before anyone understood what was happening.

At the end of the hall, where the soldiers had entered, stood a ragged, bearded man with a

bow. A crutch lay on the floor by his feet, apparently unneeded, for he stood tall and

straight.

The three remaining soldiers turned to face this new threat. Eragon took advantage of the

confusion. “Thrysta!” he shouted. One of the men clutched his chest and fell. Eragon

staggered as the magic took its toll. Another soldier fell, pierced through the neck with an

arrow. “Don’t kill him!” called Eragon, seeing his rescuer take aim at the last soldier. The

bearded man lowered his bow.

Eragon concentrated on the soldier before him. The man was breathing hard; the whites

of his eyes showed. He seemed to understand that his life was being spared.

“You’ve seen what I can do,” said Eragon harshly. “If you don’t answer my questions,

the rest of your life will be spent in utter misery and torment. Now where’s my sword—

its sheath and blade are red—and what cell is the elf in?”

The man clamped his mouth shut.

Eragon’s palm glowed ominously as he reached for the magic. “That was the wrong

answer,” he snapped. “Do you know how much pain a grain of sand can cause you when

it’s embedded red hot in your stomach? Especially when it doesn’t cool off for the next

twenty years and slowly burns its way down to your toes! By the time it gets out of you,

you’ll be an old man.” He paused for effect. “Unless you tell me what I want.”

The soldier’s eyes bulged, but he remained silent. Eragon scraped some dirt off the stone

floor and observed dispassionately, “This is a bit more than a piece of sand, but be

comforted; it’ll burn through you faster. Still, it’ll leave a bigger hole.” At his word, the

dirt shone cherry red, though it did not burn his hand.

“All right, just don’t put that in me!” yelped the soldier. “The elf’s in the last cell to the

left! I don’t know about your sword, but it’s probably in the guardroom upstairs. All the

weapons are there.”

Eragon nodded, then murmured, “Slytha.” The soldier’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he

collapsed limply.

“Did you kill him?”

Eragon looked at the stranger, who was now only a few paces away. He narrowed his

eyes, trying to see past the beard. “Murtagh! Is that you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Murtagh, briefly lifting the beard from his shaven face. “I don’t want my face

seen. Did you kill him?”

“No, he’s only asleep. How did you get in?”

“There’s no time to explain. We have to get up to the next floor before anyone finds us.

There’ll be an escape route for us in a few minutes. We don’t want to miss it.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” asked Eragon, gesturing at the unconscious soldier.

“There’s an elf in the prison. I saw her! We have to rescue her. I need your help.”

“An elf . . . !” Murtagh hurried down the hall, growling, “This is a mistake. We should

flee while we have the chance.” He stopped before the cell the soldier had indicated and

produced a ring of keys from under his ragged cloak. “I took it from one of the guards,”

he explained.

Eragon motioned for the keys. Murtagh shrugged and handed them to him. Eragon found

the right one and swung the door open. A single beam of moonlight slanted through the

window, illuminating the elf’s face with cool silver.

She faced him, tense and coiled, ready for whatever would happen next. She held her

head high, with a queen’s demeanor. Her eyes, dark green, almost black, and slightly

angled like a cat’s, lifted to Eragon’s. Chills shot through him.

Their gaze held for a moment, then the elf trembled and collapsed soundlessly. Eragon

barely caught her before she struck the floor. She was surprisingly light. The aroma of

freshly crushed pine needles surrounded her.

Murtagh entered the cell. “She’s beautiful!”

“But hurt.”

“We can tend to her later. Are you strong enough to carry her?” Eragon shook his head.

“Then I’ll do it,” said Murtagh as he slung the elf across his shoulders. “Now, upstairs!”

He handed Eragon a dagger, then hurried back into the hall littered with soldiers’ bodies.

With heavy footsteps Murtagh led Eragon to a stone-hewn staircase at the end of the hall.

As they climbed it, Eragon asked, “How are we going to get out without being noticed?”

“We’re not,” grunted Murtagh.

That did not allay Eragon’s fears. He listened anxiously for soldiers or anyone else who

might be nearby, dreading what might happen if they met the Shade. At the head of the

stairs was a banquet room filled with broad wooden tables. Shields lined the walls, and

the wood ceiling was trussed with curved beams. Murtagh laid the elf on a table and

looked at the ceiling worriedly. “Can you talk to Saphira for me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her to wait another five minutes.”

There were shouts in the distance. Soldiers marched past the entrance to the banquet

room. Eragon’s mouth tightened with pent-up tension. “Whatever you’re planning to do,

I don’t think we have much time.”

“Just tell her, and stay out of sight,” snapped Murtagh, running off.

As Eragon relayed the message, he was alarmed to hear men coming up the stairs.

Fighting hunger and exhaustion, he dragged the elf off the table and hid her underneath it.

He crouched next to her, holding his breath, tightly clenching the dagger.

Ten soldiers entered the room. They swept through it hurriedly, looking under only a

couple of tables, and continued on their way. Eragon leaned against a table leg, sighing.

The respite made him suddenly aware of his burning stomach and parched throat. A

tankard and a plate of half-eaten food on the other side of the room caught his attention.

Eragon dashed from his hiding place, grabbed the food, then scurried back to the table.

There was amber beer in the tankard, which he drank in two great gulps. Relief seeped

through him as the cool liquid ran down his throat, soothing the irritated tissue. He

suppressed a belch before ravenously tearing into a hunk of bread.

Murtagh returned carrying Zar’roc, a strange bow, and an elegant sword without a sheath.

Murtagh gave Zar’roc to Eragon. “I found the other sword and bow in the guardroom.

I’ve never seen weapons like them before, so I assumed they were the elf’s.”

“Let’s find out,” said Eragon through a mouthful of bread. The sword—slim and light

with a curved crossguard, the ends of which narrowed into sharp points—fit the elf’s

sheath perfectly. There was no way to tell if the bow was hers, but it was shaped so

gracefully he doubted it could be anyone else’s. “What now?” he asked, cramming

another bite of food into his mouth. “We can’t stay here forever. Sooner or later the

soldiers will find us.”

“Now,” said Murtagh, taking out his own bow and fitting an arrow to the string, “we

wait. Like I said, our escape has been arranged.”

“You don’t understand; there’s a Shade here! If he finds us, we’re doomed.”

“A Shade!” exclaimed Murtagh. “In that case, tell Saphira to come immediately. We

were going to wait until the watch changed, but delaying even that long is too dangerous

now.” Eragon relayed the message succinctly, refraining from distracting Saphira with

questions. “You messed up my plans by escaping yourself,” groused Murtagh, watching

the room’s entrances for soldiers.

Eragon smiled. “In that case, perhaps I should have waited. Your timing was perfect,

though. I wouldn’t have been able to even crawl if I had been forced to fight all those

soldiers with magic.”

“Glad to be of some use,” remarked Murtagh. He stiffened as they heard men running

nearby. “Let’s just hope the Shade doesn’t find us.”

A cold chuckle filled the banquet room. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”

Murtagh and Eragon spun around. The Shade stood alone at the end of the room. In his

hand was a pale sword with a thin scratch on the blade. He unclasped the brooch that held

his cape in place and let the garment fall to the floor. His body was like a runner’s, thin

and compact, but Eragon remembered Brom’s warning and knew that the Shade’s

appearance was deceiving; he was many times stronger than a normal human.

“So, my young Rider, do you wish to test yourself against me?” sneered the Shade. “I

shouldn’t have trusted the captain when he said you ate all your food. I will not make that

mistake again.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Murtagh quietly, putting down his bow and drawing his

sword.

“No,” said Eragon under his breath. “He wants me alive, not you. I can stall him for a

short while, but then you’d better have a way out for us.”

“Fine, go,” said Murtagh. “You won’t have to hold him off for long.”

“I hope not,” said Eragon grimly. He drew Zar’roc and slowly advanced. The red blade

glinted with light from torches on the wall.

The Shade’s maroon eyes burned like coals. He laughed softly. “Do you really think to

defeat me, Du Súndavar Freohr? What a pitiful name. I would have expected something

more subtle from you, but I suppose that’s all you’re capable of.”

Eragon refused to let himself be goaded. He stared at the Shade’s face, waiting for a

flicker of his eyes or twitch of his lip, anything that would betray his next move. I can’t use magic for fear of provoking him to do the same. He has to think that he can win

without resorting to it—which he probably can.

Before either of them moved, the ceiling boomed and shook. Dust billowed from it and

turned the air gray while pieces of wood fell around them, shattering on the floor. From

the roof came screams and the sound of clashing metal. Afraid of being brained by the

falling timber, Eragon flicked his eyes upward. The Shade took advantage of his

distraction and attacked.

Eragon barely managed to get Zar’roc up in time to block a slash at his ribs. Their blades

met with a clang that jarred his teeth and numbed his arm. Hellfire! He’s strong! He

grasped Zar’roc with both hands and swung with all of his might at the Shade’s head. The

Shade blocked him with ease, whipping his sword through the air faster than Eragon had

thought possible.

Terrible screeches sounded above them, like iron spikes being drawn across rock. Three

long cracks split the ceiling. Shingles from the slate roof fell through the fissures. Eragon

ignored them, even when one smashed into the floor next to him. Though he had trained

with a master of the blade, Brom, and with Murtagh, who was also a deadly swordsman,

he had never been this outclassed. The Shade was playing with him.

Eragon retreated toward Murtagh, arms trembling as he parried the Shade’s blows. Each

one seemed more powerful than the last. Eragon was no longer strong enough to call

upon magic for help even if he had wanted to. Then, with a contemptuous flick of his

wrist, the Shade knocked Zar’roc out of Eragon’s hand. The force of the blow sent him to

his knees, where he stayed, panting. The screeching was louder than ever. Whatever was

happening, it was getting closer.

The Shade stared down at him haughtily. “A powerful piece you may be in the game that

is being played, but I’m disappointed that this is your best. If the other Riders were this

weak, they must have controlled the Empire only through sheer numbers.”

Eragon looked up and shook his head. He had figured out Murtagh’s plan. Saphira, now

would be a good time. “No, you forget something.”

“And what might that be?” asked the Shade mockingly.

There was a thunderous reverberation as a chunk of the ceiling was torn away to reveal

the night sky. “The dragons!” roared Eragon over the noise, and threw himself out of the

Shade’s reach. The Shade snarled in rage, swinging his sword viciously. He missed and

lunged. Surprise spread across his face as one of Murtagh’s arrows sprouted from his

shoulder.

The Shade laughed and snapped the arrow off with two fingers. “You’ll have to do better

than that if you want to stop me.” The next arrow caught him between the eyes. The

Shade howled with agony and writhed, covering his face. His skin turned gray. Mist

formed in the air around him, obscuring his figure. There was a shattering cry; then the

cloud vanished.

Where the Shade had been, nothing was left but his cape and a pile of clothes. “You

killed him!” exclaimed Eragon. He knew of only two heroes of legend who had survived

slaying a Shade.

“I’m not so sure,” said Murtagh.

A man shouted, “That’s it. He failed. Go in and get them!” Soldiers with nets and spears

poured into the banquet room from both ends. Eragon and Murtagh backed up against the

wall, dragging the elf with them. The men formed a menacing half-circle around them.

Then Saphira stuck her head through the hole in the ceiling and roared. She gripped the

edge of the opening with her powerful talons and ripped off another large section of the

ceiling.

Three soldiers turned and ran, but the rest held their positions. With a resounding report,

the center beam of the ceiling cracked and rained down heavy shingles. Confusion

scattered the ranks as they tried to dodge the deadly barrage. Eragon and Murtagh pressed

against the wall to avoid the falling debris. Saphira roared again, and the soldiers fled,

some getting crushed on the way.

With a final titanic effort, Saphira tore off the rest of the ceiling before jumping into the

banquet hall with her wings folded. Her weight splintered a table with a sharp crunch.

Crying out with relief, Eragon threw his arms around her. She hummed contentedly. I’ve

missed you, little one.

Same here. There’s someone else with us. Can you carry three?

Of course, she said, kicking shingles and tables out of the way so she could take off.

Murtagh and Eragon pulled the elf out of hiding. Saphira hissed in surprise as she saw

her. An elf!

Yes, and the woman I saw in my dreams, said Eragon, picking up Zar’roc. He helped

Murtagh secure the elf into the saddle, then they both climbed onto Saphira. I heard

fighting on the roof. Are there men up there?

There were, but no more. Are you ready?

Yes.

Saphira leapt out of the banquet hall and onto the fortress’s roof, where the bodies of

watchmen lay scattered. “Look!” said Murtagh, pointing. A row of archers filed out of a

tower on the other side of the roofless hall.

“Saphira, you have to take off. Now!” warned Eragon.

She unfurled her wings, ran toward the edge of the building, and propelled them over it

with her powerful legs. The extra weight on her back made her drop alarmingly. As she

struggled to gain altitude, Eragon heard the musical twang of bowstrings being released.

Arrows whizzed toward them in the dark. Saphira roared with pain as she was struck and

quickly rolled to the left to avoid the next volley. More arrows perforated the sky, but the

night protected them from the shafts’ deadly bite. Distressed, Eragon bent over Saphira’s

neck. Where are you hurt?

My wings are pierced . . . one of the arrows didn’t go all the way through. It’s still

there. Her breathing was labored and heavy.

How far can you take us?

Far enough. Eragon clutched the elf tightly as they skimmed over Gil’ead, then left the city behind and veered eastward, soaring upward through the night.

AWARRIOR

AND AHEALER

Saphira drifted down to a clearing, landed on the crest of a hill, and rested her

outstretched wings on the ground. Eragon could feel her shaking beneath him. They were

only a half-league from Gil’ead.

Picketed in the clearing were Snowfire and Tornac, who snorted nervously at Saphira’s

arrival. Eragon slid to the ground and immediately turned to Saphira’s injuries, while

Murtagh readied the horses.

Unable to see well in the darkness, Eragon ran his hands blindly over Saphira’s wings.

He found three places where arrows had punctured the thin membrane, leaving bloody

holes as thick around as his thumb. A small piece had also been torn out of the back edge

of her left wing. She shivered when his fingers brushed the injuries. He tiredly healed the

wounds with words from the ancient language. Then he went to the arrow that was

embedded in one of the large muscles of her flying arm. The arrowhead poked through its

underside. Warm blood dripped off it.

Eragon called Murtagh over and instructed, “Hold her wing down. I have to remove this

arrow.” He indicated where Murtagh should grip. This will be painful, he warned

Saphira, but it’ll be over quickly. Try not to struggle—you’ll hurt us.

She extended her neck and grabbed a tall sapling between her curved teeth. With a yank

of her head, she pulled the tree out of the ground and clamped it firmly in her jaws. I’m

ready.

Okay, said Eragon. “Hold on,” he whispered to Murtagh, then broke off the head of the

arrow. Trying not cause any more damage, he swiftly pulled the shaft out of Saphira. As

it left her muscle, she threw back her head and whimpered past the tree in her mouth. Her

wing jerked involuntarily, clipping Murtagh under the chin and knocking him to the

ground.

With a growl, Saphira shook the tree, spraying them with dirt before tossing it away.

After Eragon sealed the wound, he helped Murtagh up. “She caught me by surprise,”

admitted Murtagh, touching his scraped jaw.

I’m sorry.

“She didn’t mean to hit you,” assured Eragon. He checked on the unconscious elf. You’re

going to have to carry her a bit longer, he told Saphira. We can’t take her on the horses and ride fast enough. Flying should be easier for you now that the arrow is out.

Saphira dipped her head. I will do it.

Thank you, said Eragon. He hugged her fiercely. What you did was incredible; I’ll never forget it.

Her eyes softened. I will go now. He backed away as she flew up in a flurry of air, the elf’s hair streaming back. Seconds later they were gone. Eragon hurried to Snowfire,

pulled himself into the saddle, and galloped away with Murtagh.

While they rode, Eragon tried to remember what he knew about elves. They had long

lives—that fact was oft repeated—although he knew not how long. They spoke the

ancient language, and many could use magic. After the Riders’ fall, elves had retreated

into seclusion. None of them had been seen in the Empire since. So why is one here now?

And how did the Empire manage to capture her? If she can use magic, she’s probably

drugged as I was.

They traveled through the night, not stopping even when their flagging strength began to

slow them. They continued onward despite burning eyes and clumsy movements. Behind

them, lines of torch-bearing horsemen searched around Gil’ead for their trail.

After many bleary hours, dawn lightened the sky. By unspoken consent Eragon and

Murtagh stopped the horses. “We have to make camp,” said Eragon wearily. “I must

sleep—whether they catch us or not.”

“Agreed,” said Murtagh, rubbing his eyes. “Have Saphira land. We’ll meet her.”

They followed Saphira’s directions and found her drinking from a stream at the base of a

small cliff, the elf still slouched on her back. Saphira greeted them with a soft bugle as

Eragon dismounted.

Murtagh helped him remove the elf from Saphira’s saddle and lower her to the ground.

Then they sagged against the rock face, exhausted. Saphira examined the elf curiously. I

wonder why she hasn’t woken. It’s been hours since we left Gil’ead.

Who knows what they did to her? said Eragon grimly.

Murtagh followed their gaze. “As far as I know, she’s the first elf the king has captured.

Ever since they went into hiding, he’s been looking for them without success—until now.

So he’s either found their sanctuary, or she was captured by chance. I think it was chance.

If he had found the elf haven, he would have declared war and sent his army after the

elves. Since that hasn’t happened, the question is, Were Galbatorix’s men able to extract

the elves’ location before we rescued her?”

“We won’t know until she regains consciousness. Tell me what happened after I was

captured. How did I end up in Gil’ead?”

“The Urgals are working for the Empire,” said Murtagh shortly, pushing back his hair.

“And, it seems, the Shade as well. Saphira and I saw the Urgals give you to him—though

I didn’t know who it was at the time—and a group of soldiers. They were the ones who

took you to Gil’ead.”

It’s true, said Saphira, curling up next to them.

Eragon’s mind flashed back to the Urgals he had spoken with at Teirm and the “master”

they had mentioned. They meant the king! I insulted the most powerful man in Alagaësia!

he realized with dread. Then he remembered the horror of the slaughtered villagers in

Yazuac. A sick, angry feeling welled in his stomach. The Urgals were under Galbatorix’s

orders! Why would he commit such an atrocity on his own subjects?

Because he is evil, stated Saphira flatly.

Glowering, Eragon exclaimed, “This will mean war! Once the people of the Empire learn

of it, they will rebel and support the Varden.”

Murtagh rested his chin in his hand. “Even if they heard of this outrage, few would make

it to the Varden. With the Urgals under his command, the king has enough warriors to

close the Empire’s borders and remain in control, no matter how disruptive people are.

With such a rule of terror, he will be able to shape the Empire however he wants. And

though he is hated, people could be galvanized into joining him if they had a common

enemy.”

“Who would that be?” asked Eragon, confused.

“The elves and the Varden. With the right rumors they can be portrayed as the most

despicable monsters in Alagaësia—fiends who are waiting to seize your land and wealth.

The Empire could even say that the Urgals have been misunderstood all this time and that

they are really friends and allies against such terrible enemies. I only wonder what the

king promised them in return for their services.”

“It wouldn’t work,” said Eragon, shaking his head. “No one could be deceived that easily

about Galbatorix and the Urgals. Besides, why would he want to do that? He’s already in

power.”

“But his authority is challenged by the Varden, with whom people sympathize. There’s

also Surda, which has defied him since it seceded from the Empire. Galbatorix is strong

within the Empire, but his arm is weak outside of it. As for people seeing through his

deceptions, they’ll believe whatever he wants them to. It’s happened before.” Murtagh

fell silent and gazed moodily into the distance.

His words troubled Eragon. Saphira touched him with her mind: Where is Galbatorix

sending the Urgals?

What?

In both Carvahall and Teirm, you heard that Urgals were leaving the area and migrating

southeast, as if to brave the Hadarac Desert. If the king truly does control them, why is

he sending them in that direction? Maybe an Urgal army is being gathered for his private

use or an Urgal city is being formed.

Eragon shuddered at the thought. I’m too tired to figure it out. Whatever Galbatorix’s

plans, they’ll only cause us trouble. I just wish that we knew where the Varden are.

That’s where we should be going, but we’re lost without Dormnad. It doesn’t matter what

we do; the Empire will find us.

Don’t give up, she said encouragingly, then added dryly, though you’re probably right.

Thanks. He looked at Murtagh. “You risked your life to rescue me; I owe you for that. I couldn’t have escaped on my own.” It was more than that, though. There was a bond

between them now, welded in the brotherhood of battle and tempered by the loyalty

Murtagh had shown.

“I’m just glad I could help. It . . .” Murtagh faltered and rubbed his face. “My main worry

now is how we’re going to travel with so many men searching for us. Gil’ead’s soldiers

will be hunting us tomorrow; once they find the horses’ tracks, they’ll know you didn’t

fly away with Saphira.”

Eragon glumly agreed. “How did you manage to get into the castle?”

Murtagh laughed softly. “By paying a steep bribe and crawling through a filthy scullery

chute. But the plan wouldn’t have worked without Saphira. She,” he stopped and directed

his words at her, “that is, you, are the only reason we escaped alive.”

Eragon solemnly put a hand on her scaly neck. As she hummed contentedly, he gazed at

the elf’s face, captivated. Reluctantly, he dragged himself upright. “We should make a

bed for her.”

Murtagh got to his feet and stretched out a blanket for the elf. When they lifted her onto

it, the cuff of her sleeve tore on a branch. Eragon began to pinch the fabric together, then

gasped.

The elf’s arm was mottled with a layer of bruises and cuts; some were half healed, while

others were fresh and oozing. Eragon shook his head with anger and pulled the sleeve up

higher. The injuries continued to her shoulder. With trembling fingers, he unlaced the

back of her shirt, dreading what might be under it.

As the leather slipped off, Murtagh cursed. The elf’s back was strong and muscled, but it

was covered with scabs that made her skin look like dry, cracked mud. She had been

whipped mercilessly and branded with hot irons in the shape of claws. Where her skin

was still intact, it was purple and black from numerous beatings. On her left shoulder was

a tattoo inscribed with indigo ink. It was the same symbol that had been on the sapphire

of Brom’s ring. Eragon silently swore an oath that he would kill whoever was responsible

for torturing the elf.

“Can you heal this?” asked Murtagh.

“I—I don’t know,” said Eragon. He swallowed back sudden queasiness. “There’s so

much.”

Eragon! said Saphira sharply. This is an elf. She cannot be allowed to die. Tired or not, hungry or not, you must save her. I will meld my strength with yours, but you are the one

who must wield the magic.

Yes . . . you are right, he murmured, unable to tear his eyes from the elf. Determined, he pulled off his gloves and said to Murtagh, “This is going to take some time. Can you get

me food? Also, boil rags for bandages; I can’t heal all her wounds.”

“We can’t make a fire without being seen,” objected Murtagh. “You’ll have to use

unwashed cloths, and the food will be cold.” Eragon grimaced but acquiesced. As he

gently laid a hand on the elf’s spine, Saphira settled next to him, her glittering eyes fixed

on the elf. He took a deep breath, then reached for the magic and started working.

He spoke the ancient words, “Waíse heill!” A burn shimmered under his palm, and new,

unmarked skin flowed over it, joining together without a scar. He passed over bruises or

other wounds that were not life-threatening—healing them all would consume the energy

he needed for more serious injuries. As Eragon toiled, he marveled that the elf was still

alive. She had been repeatedly tortured to the edge of death with a precision that chilled

him.

Although he tried to preserve the elf’s modesty, he could not help but notice that

underneath the disfiguring marks, her body was exceptionally beautiful. He was

exhausted and did not dwell upon it—though his ears turned red at times, and he

fervently hoped that Saphira did not know what he was thinking.

He labored through dawn, pausing only at brief intervals to eat and drink, trying to

replenish himself from his fast, the escape, and now healing the elf. Saphira remained by

his side, lending her strength where she could. The sun was well into the sky when he

finally stood, groaning as his cramped muscles stretched. His hands were gray and his

eyes felt dry and gritty. He stumbled to the saddlebags and took a long drink from the

wineskin. “Is it done?” asked Murtagh.

Eragon nodded, trembling. He did not trust himself to speak. The camp spun before him;

he nearly fainted. You did well, said Saphira soothingly.

“Will she live?”

“I don’t—don’t know,” he said in a ravaged voice. “Elves are strong, but even they

cannot endure abuse like this with impunity. If I knew more about healing, I might be

able to revive her, but . . .” He gestured helplessly. His hand was shaking so badly he

spilled some of the wine. Another swig helped to steady him. “We’d better start riding

again.”

“No! You must sleep,” protested Murtagh.

“I . . . can sleep in the saddle. But we can’t afford to stay here, not with the soldiers

closing on us.”

Murtagh reluctantly gave in. “In that case I’ll lead Snowfire while you rest.” They

resaddled the horses, strapped the elf onto Saphira, and departed the camp. Eragon ate

while he rode, trying to replace his depleted energy before he leaned forward against

Snowfire and closed his eyes.

WATER FROMSAND

When they stopped for the evening, Eragon felt no better and his temper had worsened.

Most of the day had been spent on long detours to avoid detection by soldiers with

hunting dogs. He dismounted Snowfire and asked Saphira, How is she?

I think no worse than before. She stirred slightly a few times, but that was all. Saphira crouched low to the ground to let him lift the elf out of the saddle. For a moment her soft

form pressed against Eragon. Then he hurriedly put her down.

He and Murtagh made a small dinner. It was difficult for them to fight off the urge to

sleep. When they had eaten, Murtagh said, “We can’t keep up this pace; we aren’t

gaining any ground on the soldiers. Another day or two of this and they’ll be sure to

overtake us.”

“What else can we do?” snapped Eragon. “If it were just the two of us and you were

willing to leave Tornac behind, Saphira could fly us out of here. But with the elf, too?

Impossible.”

Murtagh looked at him carefully. “If you want to go your own way, I won’t stop you. I

can’t expect you and Saphira to stay and risk imprisonment.”

“Don’t insult me,” Eragon muttered. “The only reason I’m free is because of you. I’m not

going to abandon you to the Empire. Poor thanks that would be!”

Murtagh bowed his head. “Your words hearten me.” He paused. “But they don’t solve

our problem.”

“What can?” Eragon asked. He gestured at the elf. “I wish she could tell us where the

elves are; perhaps we could seek sanctuary with them.”

“Considering how they’ve protected themselves, I doubt she’d reveal their location. Even

if she did, the others of her kind might not welcome us. Why would they want to shelter

us anyway? The last Riders they had contact with were Galbatorix and the Forsworn. I

doubt that left them with pleasant memories. And I don’t even have the dubious honor of

being a Rider like you. No, they would not want me at all.”

They would accept us, said Saphira confidently as she shifted her wings to a more

comfortable position.

Eragon shrugged. “Even if they would protect us, we can’t find them, and it’s impossible

to ask the elf until she regains consciousness. We must flee, but in which direction—

north, south, east, or west?”

Murtagh laced his fingers together and pressed his thumbs against his temples. “I think

the only thing we can do is leave the Empire. The few safe places within it are far from

here. They would be difficult to reach without being caught or followed. . . . There’s

nothing for us to the north except the forest Du Weldenvarden—which we might be able

to hide in, but I don’t relish going back past Gil’ead. Only the Empire and the sea lie

westward. To the south is Surda, where you might be able to find someone to direct you

to the Varden. As for going east . . .” He shrugged. “To the east, the Hadarac Desert

stands between us and whatever lands exist in that direction. The Varden are somewhere

across it, but without directions it might take us years to find them.”

We would be safe, though, remarked Saphira. As long as we didn’t encounter any Urgals.

Eragon knitted his brow. A headache threatened to drown his thoughts in hot throbs. “It’s

too dangerous to go to Surda. We would have to traverse most of the Empire, avoiding

every town and village. There are too many people between us and Surda to get there

unnoticed.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “So you want to go across the desert?”

“I don’t see any other options. Besides, that way we can leave the Empire before the

Ra’zac get here. With their flying steeds, they’ll probably arrive in Gil’ead in a couple of

days, so we don’t have much time.”

“Even if we do reach the desert before they get here,” said Murtagh, “they could still

overtake us. It’ll be hard to outdistance them at all.”

Eragon rubbed Saphira’s side, her scales rough under his fingers. “That’s assuming they

can follow our trail. To catch us, though, they’ll have to leave the soldiers behind, which

is to our advantage. If it comes to a fight, I think the three of us can defeat them . . . as

long as we aren’t ambushed the way Brom and I were.”

“If we reach the other side of the Hadarac safely,” said Murtagh slowly, “where will we

go? Those lands are well outside of the Empire. There will be few cities, if any. And then

there is the desert itself. What do you know of it?”

“Only that it’s hot, dry, and full of sand,” confessed Eragon.

“That about sums it up,” replied Murtagh. “It’s filled with poisonous and inedible plants,

venomous snakes, scorpions, and a blistering sun. You saw the great plain on our way to

Gil’ead?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Eragon answered anyway, “Yes, and once before.”

“Then you are familiar with its immense range. It fills the heart of the Empire. Now

imagine something two or three times its size, and you’ll understand the vastness of the

Hadarac Desert. That is what you’re proposing to cross.”

Eragon tried to envision a piece of land that gigantic but was unable to grasp the

distances involved. He retrieved the map of Alagaësia from his saddlebags. The

parchment smelled musty as he unrolled it on the ground. He inspected the plains and

shook his head in amazement. “No wonder the Empire ends at the desert. Everything on

the other side is too far away for Galbatorix to control.”

Murtagh swept his hand over the right side of the parchment. “All the land beyond the

desert, which is blank on this map, was under one rule when the Riders lived. If the king

were to raise up new Riders under his command, it would allow him to expand the

Empire to an unprecedented size. But that wasn’t the point I was trying to make. The

Hadarac Desert is so huge and contains so many dangers, the chances are slim that we

can cross it unscathed. It is a desperate path to take.”

“We are desperate,” said Eragon firmly. He studied the map carefully. “If we rode

through the belly of the desert, it would take well over a month, perhaps even two, to

cross it. But if we angle southeast, toward the Beor Mountains, we could cut through

much faster. Then we can either follow the Beor Mountains farther east into the

wilderness or go west to Surda. If this map is accurate, the distance between here and the

Beors is roughly equal to what we covered on our way to Gil’ead.”

“But that took us nearly a month!”

Eragon shook his head impatiently. “Our ride to Gil’ead was slow on account of my

injuries. If we press ourselves, it’ll take only a fraction of that time to reach the Beor

Mountains.”

“Enough. You made your point,” acknowledged Murtagh. “Before I consent, however,

something must be solved. As I’m sure you noticed, I bought supplies for us and the

horses while I was in Gil’ead. But how can we get enough water? The roving tribes who

live in the Hadarac usually disguise their wells and oases so no one can steal their water.

And carrying enough for more than a day is impractical. Just think about how much

Saphira drinks! She and the horses consume more water at one time than we do in a

week. Unless you can make it rain whenever we need, I don’t see how we can go the

direction you propose.”

Eragon rocked back on his heels. Making rain was well beyond his power. He suspected

that not even the strongest Rider could have done it. Moving that much air was like trying

to lift a mountain. He needed a solution that would not drain all of his strength. I wonder if it’s possible to convert sand into water? That would solve our problem, but only if it

doesn’t take too much energy.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Let me experiment, then I’ll give you an answer.” Eragon

strode out of the camp, with Saphira following closely.

What are you going to try? she asked.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. Saphira, could you carry enough water for us?

She shook her enormous head. No, I wouldn’t even be able to lift that much weight, let

alone fly with it.

Too bad. He knelt and picked up a stone with a cavity large enough for a mouthful of

water. He pressed a clump of dirt into the hollow and studied it thoughtfully. Now came

the hard part. Somehow he had to convert the dirt into water. But what words should I

use? He puzzled over it for a moment, then picked two he hoped would work. The icy

magic rushed through him as he breached the familiar barrier in his mind and

commanded, “Deloi moi!”

Immediately the dirt began to absorb his strength at a prodigious rate. Eragon’s mind

flashed back to Brom’s warning that certain tasks could consume all of his power and

take his life. Panic blossomed in his chest. He tried to release the magic but could not. It

was linked to him until the task was complete or he was dead. All he could do was

remain motionless, growing weaker every moment.

Just as he became convinced that he would die kneeling there, the dirt shimmered and

morphed into a thimbleful of water. Relieved, Eragon sat back, breathing hard. His heart

pounded painfully and hunger gnawed at his innards.

What happened? asked Saphira.

Eragon shook his head, still in shock from the drain on his body’s reserves. He was glad

that he had not tried to transmute anything larger. This . . . this won’t work, he said. I don’t even have the strength to give myself a drink.

You should have been more careful, she chided. Magic can yield unexpected results when the ancient words are combined in new ways.

He glared at her. I know that, but this was the only way I could test my idea. I wasn’t

going to wait until we were in the desert! He reminded himself that she was only trying to help. How did you turn Brom’s grave into diamond without killing yourself? I can barely

handle a bit of dirt, much less all that sandstone.

I don’t know how I did it, she stated calmly. It just happened.

Could you do it again, but this time make water?

Eragon, she said, looking him squarely in the face. I’ve no more control over my abilities than a spider does. Things like that occur whether I will them or not. Brom told you that

unusual events happen around dragons. He spoke truly. He gave no explanation for it,

nor do I have one. Sometimes I can work changes just by feel, almost without thought.

The rest of the time—like right now—I’m as powerless as Snowfire.

You’re never powerless, he said softly, putting a hand on her neck. For a long period they were both quiet. Eragon remembered the grave he had made and how Brom lay within it.

He could still see the sandstone flowing over the old man’s face. “At least we gave him a

decent burial,” he whispered.

He idly swirled a finger in the dirt, making twisting ridges. Two of the ridges formed a

miniature valley, so he added mountains around it. With his fingernail he scratched a

river down the valley, then deepened it because it seemed too shallow. He added a few

more details until he found himself staring at a passable reproduction of Palancar Valley.

Homesickness welled up within him, and he obliterated the valley with a swipe of his

hand.

I don’t want to talk about it, he muttered angrily, staving off Saphira’s questions. He crossed his arms and glared at the ground. Almost against his will, his eyes flicked back

to where he had gouged the earth. He straightened, surprised. Though the ground was

dry, the furrow he had made was lined with moisture. Curious, he scraped away more dirt

and found a damp layer a few inches under the surface. “Look at this!” he said excitedly.

Saphira lowered her nose to his discovery. How does this help us? Water in the desert is

sure to be buried so deeply we would have to dig for weeks to find it.

Yes, said Eragon delightedly, but as long as it’s there, I can get it. Watch! He deepened the hole, then mentally accessed the magic. Instead of changing the dirt into water, he simply

summoned forth the moisture that was already in the earth. With a faint trickle, water

rushed into the hole. He smiled and sipped from it. The liquid was cool and pure, perfect

for drinking. See! We can get all we need.

Saphira sniffed the pool. Here, yes. But in the desert? There may not be enough water in

the ground for you to bring to the surface.

It will work, Eragon assured her. All I’m doing is lifting the water, an easy enough task. As long as it’s done slowly, my strength will hold. Even if I have to draw the water from fifty paces down, it won’t be a problem. Especially if you help me.

Saphira looked at him dubiously. Are you sure? Think carefully upon your answer, for it

will mean our lives if you are wrong.

Eragon hesitated, then said firmly, I’m sure.

Then go tell Murtagh. I will keep watch while you sleep.

But you’ve stayed up all night like us, he objected. You should rest.

I’ll be fine—I’m stronger than you know, she said gently. Her scales rustled as she curled up with a watchful eye turned northward, toward their pursuers. Eragon hugged her, and

she hummed deeply, sides vibrating. Go.

He lingered, then reluctantly returned to Murtagh, who asked, “Well? Is the desert open

to us?”

“It is,” acknowledged Eragon. He flopped onto his blankets and explained what he had

learned. When he finished, Eragon turned to the elf. Her face was the last thing he saw

before falling asleep.

THERAMRRIVER

They forced themselves to rise early in the gray predawn hours. Eragon shivered in the

cool air. “How are we going to transport the elf? She can’t ride on Saphira’s back much

longer without getting sores from her scales. Saphira can’t carry her in her claws—it tires

her and makes landing dangerous. A sledge won’t work; it would get battered to pieces

while we ride, and I don’t want the horses slowed by the weight of another person.”

Murtagh considered the matter as he saddled Tornac. “If you were to ride Saphira, we

could lash the elf onto Snowfire, but we’d have the same problem with sores.”

I have a solution, said Saphira unexpectedly. Why don’t you tie the elf to my belly? I’ll still be able to move freely, and she will be safer than anywhere else. The only danger will be

if soldiers shoot arrows at me, but I can easily fly above those.

None of them could come up with a better idea, so they quickly adopted hers. Eragon

folded one of his blankets in half lengthwise, secured it around the elf’s petite form, then

took her to Saphira. Blankets and spare clothes were sacrificed to form ropes long enough

to encircle Saphira’s girth. With those ropes, the elf was tied back-first against Saphira’s

belly, her head between Saphira’s front legs. Eragon looked critically at their handiwork.

“I’m afraid your scales may rub through the ropes.”

“We’ll have to check them occasionally for fraying,” commented Murtagh.

Shall we go now? Saphira asked, and Eragon repeated the question.

Murtagh’s eyes sparked dangerously, a tight smile lifting his lips. He glanced back the

way they had come, where smoke from soldiers’ camps was clearly visible, and said, “I

always did like races.”

“And now we are in one for our lives!”

Murtagh swung into Tornac’s saddle and trotted out of the camp. Eragon followed close

behind on Snowfire. Saphira jumped into the air with the elf. She flew low to the ground

to avoid being seen by the soldiers. In this fashion, the three of them made their way

southeast toward the distant Hadarac Desert.

Eragon kept a quick eye out for pursuers as he rode. His mind repeatedly wandered back

to the elf. An elf! He had actually seen one, and she was with them! He wondered what

Roran would think of that. It struck him that if he ever returned to Carvahall, he would

have a hard time convincing anyone that his adventures had actually occurred.

For the rest of the day, Eragon and Murtagh sped through the land, ignoring discomfort

and fatigue. They drove the horses as hard as they could without killing them. Sometimes

they dismounted and ran on foot to give Tornac and Snowfire a rest. Only twice did they

stop—both times to let the horses eat and drink.

Though the soldiers of Gil’ead were far behind now, Eragon and Murtagh found

themselves having to avoid new soldiers every time they passed a town or village.

Somehow the alarm had been sent ahead of them. Twice they were nearly ambushed

along the trail, escaping only because Saphira happened to smell the men ahead of them.

After the second incident, they avoided the trail entirely.

Dusk softened the countryside as evening drew a black cloak across the sky. Through the

night they traveled, relentlessly pacing out the miles. In the deepest hours of night, the

ground rose beneath them to form low cactus-dotted hills.

Murtagh pointed forward. “There’s a town, Bullridge, some leagues ahead that we must

bypass. They’re sure to have soldiers watching for us. We should try to slip past them

now while it’s dark.”

After three hours they saw the straw-yellow lanterns of Bullridge. A web of soldiers

patrolled between watch fires scattered around the town. Eragon and Murtagh muffled

their sword sheaths and carefully dismounted. They led the horses in a wide detour

around Bullridge, listening attentively to avoid stumbling on an encampment.

With the town behind them, Eragon relaxed slightly. Daybreak finally flooded the sky

with a delicate blush and warmed the chilly night air. They halted on the crest of a hill to

observe their surroundings. The Ramr River was to their left, but it was also five miles to

their right. The river continued south for several leagues, then doubled back on itself in a

narrow loop before curving west. They had covered over sixteen leagues in one day.

Eragon leaned against Snowfire’s neck, happy with the distance they had gone. “Let’s

find a gully or hollow where we can sleep undisturbed.” They stopped at a small stand of

juniper trees and laid their blankets beneath them. Saphira waited patiently as they untied

the elf from her belly.

“I’ll take the first watch and wake you at midmorning,” said Murtagh, setting his bare

sword across his knees. Eragon mumbled his assent and pulled the blankets over his

shoulders.

Nightfall found them worn and drowsy but determined to continue. As they prepared to

leave, Saphira observed to Eragon, This is the third night since we rescued you from

Gil’ead, and the elf still hasn’t woken. I’m worried. And, she continued, she has neither drunk nor eaten in that time. I know little of elves, but she is slender, and I doubt she can survive much longer without nourishment.

“What’s wrong?” asked Murtagh over Tornac’s back.

“The elf,” said Eragon, looking down at her. “Saphira is troubled that she hasn’t woken

or eaten; it disturbs me too. I healed her wounds, at least on the surface, but it doesn’t

seem to have done her any good.”

“Maybe the Shade tampered with her mind,” suggested Murtagh.

“Then we have to help her.”

Murtagh knelt by the elf. He examined her intently, then shook his head and stood. “As

far as I can tell, she’s only sleeping. It seems as if I could wake her with a word or a

touch, yet she slumbers on. Her coma might be something elves self-induce to escape the

pain of injury, but if so, why doesn’t she end it? There’s no danger to her now.”

“But does she know that?” asked Eragon quietly.

Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder. “This must wait. We have to leave now or risk

losing our hard-won lead. You can tend to her later when we stop.”

“One thing first,” said Eragon. He soaked a rag, then squeezed the cloth so water dripped

between the elf’s sculpted lips. He did that several times and dabbed above her straight,

angled eyebrows, feeling oddly protective.

They headed through the hills, avoiding the tops for fear of being spotted by sentries.

Saphira stayed with them on the ground for the same reason. Despite her bulk, she was

stealthy; only her tail could be heard scraping over the ground, like a thick blue snake.

Eventually the sky brightened in the east. The morning star Aiedail appeared as they

reached the edge of a steep bank covered with mounds of brush. Water roared below as it

tore over boulders and sluiced through branches.

“The Ramr!” said Eragon over the noise.

Murtagh nodded. “Yes! We have to find a place to ford safely.”

That isn’t necessary, said Saphira. I can carry you across, no matter how wide the river is.

Eragon looked up at her blue-gray form. What about the horses? We can’t leave them

behind. They’re too heavy for you to lift.

As long as you’re not on them and they don’t struggle too much, I’m sure that I can carry

them. If I can dodge arrows with three people on my back, I can certainly fly a horse in a

straight line over a river.

I believe you, but let’s not attempt it unless we have to. It’s too dangerous.

She clambered down the embankment. We can’t afford to squander time here.

Eragon followed her, leading Snowfire. The bank came to an abrupt end at the Ramr,

where the river ran dark and swift. White mist wafted up from the water, like blood

steaming in winter. It was impossible to see the far side. Murtagh tossed a branch into the

torrent and watched it race away, bobbing on the rough water.

“How deep do you think it is?” asked Eragon.

“I can’t tell,” said Murtagh, worry coloring his voice. “Can you see how far across it is

with magic?”

“I don’t think so, not without lighting up this place like a beacon.”

With a gust of air, Saphira took off and soared over the Ramr. After a short time, she

said, I’m on the other bank. The river is over a half-mile wide. You couldn’t have chosen a worse place to cross; the Ramr bends at this point and is at its widest.

“A half-mile!” exclaimed Eragon. He told Murtagh about Saphira’s offer to fly them.

“I’d rather not try it, for the horses’ sake. Tornac isn’t as accustomed to Saphira as

Snowfire. He might panic and injure them both. Ask Saphira to look for shallows where

we can swim over safely. If there aren’t any within a mile in either direction, then I

suppose she can ferry us.”

At Eragon’s request, Saphira agreed to search for a ford. While she explored, they

hunkered next to the horses and ate dry bread. It was not long before Saphira returned,

her velvet wings whispering in the early dawn sky. The water is both deep and strong,

upstream as well as downstream.

Once he was told, Murtagh said, “I’d better go over first, so I can watch the horses.” He

scrambled onto Saphira’s saddle. “Be careful with Tornac. I’ve had him for many years. I

don’t want anything to happen to him.” Then Saphira took off.

When she returned, the unconscious elf had been untied from her belly. Eragon led

Tornac to Saphira, ignoring the horse’s low whinnies. Saphira reared back on her

haunches to grasp the horse around the belly with her forelegs. Eragon eyed her

formidable claws and said, “Wait!” He repositioned Tornac’s saddle blanket, strapping it

to the horse’s belly so it protected his soft underside, then gestured for Saphira to

proceed.

Tornac snorted in fright and tried to bolt when Saphira’s forelegs clamped around his

sides, but she held him tightly. The horse rolled his eyes wildly, the whites rimming his

dilated pupils. Eragon tried to gentle Tornac with his mind, but the horse’s panic resisted

his touch. Before Tornac could try to escape again, Saphira jumped skyward, her hind

legs thrusting with such force that her claws gouged the rocks underneath. Her wings

strained furiously, struggling to lift the enormous load. For a moment it seemed she

would fall back to the ground. Then, with a lunge, she shot into the air. Tornac screamed

in terror, kicking and tossing. It was a terrible sound, like screeching metal.

Eragon swore, wondering if anyone was close enough to hear. You’d better hurry,

Saphira. He listened for soldiers as he waited, scanning the inky landscape for the telltale flash of torches. It soon met his eye in a line of horsemen sliding down a bluff almost a

league away.

As Saphira landed, Eragon brought Snowfire to her. Murtagh’s silly animal is in hysterics.

He had to tie Tornac down to prevent him from running away. She gripped Snowfire and

carried him off, ignoring the horse’s trumpeted protestations. Eragon watched her go,

feeling lonely in the night. The horsemen were only a mile away.

Finally Saphira came for him, and they were soon on firm ground once more, with the

Ramr to their backs. Once the horses were calmed and the saddles readjusted, they

resumed their flight toward the Beor Mountains. The air filled with the calls of birds

waking to a new day.

Eragon dozed even when walking. He was barely aware that Murtagh was just as drowsy.

There were times when neither of them guided the horses, and it was only Saphira’s

vigilance that kept them on course.

Eventually the ground became soft and gave way under their feet, forcing them to halt.

The sun was high overhead. The Ramr River was no more than a fuzzy line behind them.

They had reached the Hadarac Desert.

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, though she 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 five long 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 and save 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’t done 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, I will 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—

he was 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 to kill 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 this fear, 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 al 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, w hat 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 Kóstha-

mérna, 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’t know, ” shouted Murtagh, “but you’d better think of something 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-foot-

thick 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 they did 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, “rebels are

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.

They neared the city-mountain, and Eragon saw that the white marble of Tronjheim was

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 this boy 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

what you 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 dragon did 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 I do have power, and I will wield it as I see fit. What I want to know is how you 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—you will 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. You must 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 concern was 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. “You are 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 is so 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. I loathe 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 controlled by 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 they barely

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. And please

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 be most

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— before you 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—any competent 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 of argetlam. In desperation he combined the

only word that might work, ethgrí, or “invoke,” with arget.

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

why was 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 approaching over land, but under 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 we must 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 it for ?” 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

S natches 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 ( dure rhymes with lure )

Galbatorix—gal-buh-TOR-icks

Gil’ead—GILL-ee-id

Jeod—JODE (rhymes with load )

Murtagh—MUR-tag ( mur rhymes with purr )

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

Icreated Eragon, but its success is the result of the enthusiastic efforts of friends, family, fans, librarians, teachers, students, school administrators, distributors, booksellers, and

many more. I wish I could mention by name all the people who have helped, but the list

is very, very long. You know who you are, and I thank you!

Eragon was first published in early 2002 by my parents’ publishing company, Paolini

International LLC. They had already released three books, so it was only natural to do the

same with Eragon . We knew Eragon would appeal to a wide range of readers; our

challenge was to spread the word about it.

During 2002 and the beginning of 2003, I traveled throughout the United States doing

over 130 book signings and presentations in schools, bookstores, and libraries. My

mother and I arranged all the events. At first I had only one or two appearances per

month, but as we became more efficient at scheduling, our homemade book tour

expanded to the point where I was on the road almost continuously.

I met thousands of wonderful people, many of whom became loyal fans and friends. One

of those fans is Michelle Frey, now my editor at Knopf Books for Young Readers, who

approached me with an offer to acquire Eragon . Needless to say, I was delighted that

Knopf was interested in my book.

Thus, there are two groups of people who deserve thanks. The first assisted with the

production of the Paolini International LLC edition of Eragon, while the second is

responsible for the Knopf edition.

Here are the brave souls who helped bring Eragon into existence:

The original gang: my mother for her thoughtful red pen and wonderful help with

commas, colons, semicolons, and other assorted beasties; my father for his smashing

editing job, all the time he spent hammering my vague, wayward thoughts into line,

formatting the book and designing the cover, and listening to so many presentations;

Grandma Shirley for helping me create a satisfactory beginning and ending; my sister for

her plot advice, her good humor at being portrayed as an herbalist in Eragon, and her long hours Photoshopping Saphira’s eye on the cover; Kathy Tyers for giving me the means to

do a brutal—and much-needed—rewrite of the first three chapters; John Taliaferro for his

advice and wonderful review; a fan named Tornado—Eugene Walker—who caught a

number of copyediting errors; and Donna Overall for her love of the story, editing and

formatting advice, and keen eye for all things concerning ellipses, em dashes, widows,

orphans, kerning, and run-on sentences. If there’s a real-life Dragon Rider, she’s one—

selflessly coming to the rescue of writers lost in the Swamp of Commas. And I thank my

family for supporting me wholeheartedly . . . and for reading this saga more times than

any sane person should have to.

The new gang: Michelle Frey, who not only loved the story enough to take a chance on

an epic fantasy written by a teenager but also managed to streamline Eragon ’s pacing

through her insightful editing; my agent, Simon Lipskar, who helped find the best home

for Eragon; Chip Gibson and Beverly Horowitz for the wonderful offer; Lawrence Levy

for his good humor and legal advice; Judith Haut, publicity whiz of the first degree;

Daisy Kline for the awe-inspiring marketing campaign; Isabel Warren-Lynch, who

designed the lovely book jacket, interior, and map; John Jude Palencar, who painted the

jacket art (I actually named Palancar Valley for him long before he ever worked

on Eragon ); Artie Bennett, the doyen of copyediting and the only man alive who

understood the difference between to scry it and to scry on it; and the entire team at Knopf who have made this adventure possible.

Lastly, a very special thanks to my characters, who bravely face the dangers I force them

to confront, and without whom I wouldn’t have a story.

May your swords stay sharp!

Christopher Paolini

ABOUT THEAUTHOR

Christopher Paolini’s abiding love of fantasy and science fiction inspired him to begin

writing his debut novel, Eragon, when he graduated from high school at fifteen. Now

nineteen, he lives with his family in Paradise Valley, Montana, where he is at work

on Eldest, the next volume in the Inheritance trilogy.

You can find out more about Christopher, Eragon, and Inheritance atwww.alagaesia.com .

is also available in an unabridged

audio edition from Listening Library

ISBN 0-8072-1962-2

$39.95 U.S. / $59.95 CAN.

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Text copyright © 2003 by Christopher Paolini

Illustrations on endpapers copyright © 2002 by Christopher Paolini

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House

Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in

Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House,

Inc., New York.

Originally published, in different form, by Paolini International, LLC in 2002.

Copyright © 2002 by Christopher Paolini.

KNOPF, BORZOI BOOKS,and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House,

Inc.

www.randomhouse.com/teens

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Paolini, Christopher.

Eragon / Christopher Paolini.

p. cm. — (Inheritance ; bk. 1)

SUMMARY: In Alagaësia, a fifteen-year-old boy of unknown lineage called Eragon finds a

mysterious stone that weaves his life into an intricate tapestry of destiny, magic, and

power, peopled with dragons, elves, and monsters.

eISBN 0-375-89036-X

[1. Fantasy. 2. Dragons—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.P19535Er 2003

[Fic]—dc21 2003047481

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