INTHEBEGINNING:  

A History ofEragon ,Eldest , andBrisingr

In the beginning, there were dragons: proud, fierce, and independent. Their scales were like gems, and all  

who gazed upon them despaired, for their beauty was great and terrible.

And they lived alone in the land of Alagaësia for ages uncounted.

Then the god Helzvog made the stout and sturdy dwarves from the stone of the Hadarac Desert.

And their two races warred much.

Page 9

Then the elves sailed to Alagaësia from across the silver sea. They too warred with the dragons. But the  

elves were stronger than the dwarves, and they would have destroyed the dragons, even as the dragons  

would have destroyed the elves.

Then the elves sailed to Alagaësia from across the silver sea. They too warred with the dragons. But the  

elves were stronger than the dwarves, and they would have destroyed the dragons, even as the dragons  

would have destroyed the elves.

Then humans sailed to Alagaësia. And the horned Urgals. And the Ra'zac, who are the hunters in the  

dark and the eaters of men's flesh.

And the humans also joined the pact with the dragons.

Then a young Dragon Rider, Galbatorix, rose up against his own kind. He enslaved the black dragon  

Shruikan and he convinced thirteen other Riders to follow him. And the thirteen were called the  

Forsworn.

And Galbatorix and the Forsworn cast down the Riders and burnt their city on the isle of Vroengard and  

slew every dragon not their own, save for three eggs: one red, one blue, one green. And from each  

dragon they could, they took the heart of hearts-the Eldunarí-that holds the might and mind of the  

dragons, apart from their flesh.

And for two-and-eighty years, Galbatorix reigned supreme among the humans. The Forsworn died, but  

not he, for his strength was that of all the dragons, and none could hope to strike him down.

In the eighty-third year of Galbatorix's rule, a man stole from his castle the blue dragon egg. And the egg  

passed into the care of those who still fought against Galbatorix, those who are known as the Varden.

The elf Arya carried the egg between the Varden and the elves in search of the human or elf for whom it  

would hatch. And in this manner, five-and-twenty years passed.

Then, as Arya traveled to the elven city of Osilon, a group of Urgals attacked her and her guards. With  

the Urgals was the Shade Durza: a sorcerer possessed by the spirits he had summoned to do his bidding.  

After the death of the Forsworn, he had become Galbatorix's most feared servant. The Urgals slew  

Arya's guards, and before they and the Shade captured her, Arya sent the egg away with magic, toward  

one who she hoped could protect it.

But her spell went awry.

And so it came to pass that Eragon, an orphan of only five-and-ten years, found the egg within the  

mountains of the Spine. He took the egg to the farm where he lived with his uncle, Garrow, and his only  

cousin, Roran. And the egg hatched for Eragon, and he raised the dragon therein. And her name was  

Saphira.

Then Galbatorix sent two of the Ra'zac to find and retrieve the egg, and they slew Garrow and burnt  

Eragon's home. For Galbatorix had enslaved the Ra'zac, and of them only a few remained.

Eragon and Saphira set out to avenge themselves on the Ra'zac. With them went the storyteller Brom,  

who had once been a Dragon Rider himself, ere the fall of the Riders. It was to Brom that the elf Arya  

had meant to send the blue egg.

Page 10

Brom taught Eragon much about swordsmanship, magic, and honor. And he gave to Eragon Zar'roc,  

that had once been the sword of Morzan, first and most powerful of the Forsworn. But the Ra'zac slew  

Brom when next they met, and Eragon and Saphira only escaped with the help of a young man, Murtagh,  

son of Morzan.

Brom taught Eragon much about swordsmanship, magic, and honor. And he gave to Eragon Zar'roc,  

that had once been the sword of Morzan, first and most powerful of the Forsworn. But the Ra'zac slew  

Brom when next they met, and Eragon and Saphira only escaped with the help of a young man, Murtagh,  

son of Morzan.

There Arya was healed, and there Eragon blessed a squalling infant by the name of Elva, blessed her to  

be shielded from misfortune. But Eragon spoke badly, and without realizing it, he cursed her, and his  

curse forced her to instead become a shield for others' misfortune.

Soon thereafter, Galbatorix sent a great army of Urgals to attack the dwarves and the Varden. And it  

was in the battle that followed that Eragon slew the Shade Durza. But Durza gave Eragon a grievous  

wound across his back, and Eragon suffered terrible pain because of it, despite the spells of the Varden's  

healers.

And in his pain, he heard a voice. And the voice said,Come to me, Eragon. Come to me, for I have  

answers to all you ask .

Three days after, the leader of the Varden, Ajihad, was ambushed and killed by Urgals under the  

command of a pair of magicians, twins, who betrayed the Varden to Galbatorix. The twins also abducted  

Murtagh and spirited him away to Galbatorix. But to Eragon and everyone in the Varden, it looked as if  

Murtagh had died, and Eragon was much saddened.

And Ajihad's daughter, Nasuada, became leader of the Varden.

From Tronjheim, the seat of the dwarves' power, Eragon, Saphira, and Arya traveled to the northern  

forest of Du Weldenvarden, where live the elves. With them went the dwarf Orik, nephew of the dwarf  

king, Hrothgar.

In Du Weldenvarden, Eragon and Saphira met with Oromis and Glaedr: the last free Rider and dragon,  

who had lived in hiding all the past century, waiting to instruct the next generation of Dragon Riders. And  

Eragon and Saphira also met with Queen Islanzadí, ruler of the elves and mother to Arya.

While Oromis and Glaedr trained Eragon and Saphira, Galbatorix sent the Ra'zac and a group of  

soldiers to Eragon's home village of Carvahall, this time to capture his cousin, Roran. But Roran hid, and  

they would not have found him if not for the hatred of the butcher Sloan. For Sloan murdered a  

watchman so as to let the Ra'zac into the village, where they might take Roran unawares.

Roran fought his way free, but the Ra'zac stole from him Katrina: Roran's beloved and Sloan's  

daughter. Then Roran convinced the villagers to leave with him, and they journeyed through the  

mountains of the Spine, down the coast of Alagaësia, and to the southern country of Surda, which yet  

existed independent of Galbatorix.

The wound upon Eragon's back continued to torment him. But during the elves' Blood-oath  

Celebration, wherein they celebrate the pact between the Riders and the dragons, his wound was healed  

by the spectral dragon the elves invoke upon the conclusion of the festival. Moreover, the apparition gave  

Eragon strength and speed equal to those of the elves themselves.

Page 11

Then Eragon and Saphira flew to Surda, where Nasuada had taken the Varden to launch an attack  

against Galbatorix's Empire. There the Urgals allied themselves with the Varden, for they claimed that  

Galbatorix had clouded their minds, and they would have their revenge against him. With the Varden,  

Eragon met again the girl Elva, who had grown with prodigious speed because of his spell. From a  

squalling infant to a girl of three or four she had become, and her gaze was dire indeed, for she knew the  

pain of all those around her.

Then Eragon and Saphira flew to Surda, where Nasuada had taken the Varden to launch an attack  

against Galbatorix's Empire. There the Urgals allied themselves with the Varden, for they claimed that  

Galbatorix had clouded their minds, and they would have their revenge against him. With the Varden,  

Eragon met again the girl Elva, who had grown with prodigious speed because of his spell. From a  

squalling infant to a girl of three or four she had become, and her gaze was dire indeed, for she knew the  

pain of all those around her.

In the midst of the battle, Roran and the villagers joined the Varden, as did the dwarves, who had  

marched after them from the Beor Mountains.

But out of the east rose a figure clad in polished armor. And he rode upon a glittering red dragon. And  

with a spell, he slew King Hrothgar.

Then Eragon and Saphira fought the Rider and his red dragon. And they discovered the Rider was  

Murtagh, now bound to Galbatorix with oaths unbreakable. And the dragon was Thorn, second of the  

three eggs to hatch.

Murtagh defeated Eragon and Saphira with the strength of the Eldunarí that Galbatorix had given him.  

But Murtagh allowed Eragon and Saphira to go free, for Murtagh still bore friendship for Eragon. And  

because, as he told Eragon, they were brothers, both born of Morzan's favored consort, Selena.

Then Murtagh took Zar'roc, their father's sword, from Eragon, and he and Thorn withdrew from the  

Burning Plains, as did the rest of Galbatorix's forces.

Upon completion of the battle, Eragon, Saphira, and Roran flew to the dark tower of stone, Helgrind,  

that served as the Ra'zac's hiding place. They slew one of the Ra'zac-and the Ra'zac's foul parents,  

the Lethrblaka-and from Helgrind rescued Katrina. And in one of the cells, Eragon discovered  

Katrina's father, blind and half-dead.

Eragon considered killing Sloan for his betrayal, but rejected the idea. Instead, he put Sloan into a deep  

sleep and told Roran and Katrina that her father was dead. Then he asked Saphira to take Roran and  

Katrina back to the Varden while he hunted down the final Ra'zac.

Alone, Eragon slew the last remaining Ra'zac. Then he took Sloan away from Helgrind. After much  

thought, Eragon discovered Sloan's true name in the ancient language, the language of power and magic.  

And Eragon bound Sloan with his name and forced the butcher to swear that he would never see his  

daughter again. Then Eragon sent him to live among the elves. But what Eragon did not tell the butcher  

was that the elves would repair his eyes if he repented of his treason and murder.

Arya met Eragon halfway to the Varden, and together they returned, on foot and through enemy  

territory.

At the Varden, Eragon learned that Queen Islanzadí had sent twelve elven spellcasters, led by an elf  

named Blödhgarm, to protect him and Saphira. Eragon then removed as much of his curse as he could  

from the girl Elva, but she retained her ability to feel the pain of others, though she no longer felt the  

compulsion to save them from their misery.

And Roran married Katrina, who was pregnant, and for the first time in a long while, Eragon was happy.

Page 12

Then Murtagh, Thorn, and a group of Galbatorix's men attacked the Varden. With the help of the elves,  

Eragon and Saphira were able to hold them off, but neither Eragon nor Murtagh could defeat the other. It  

was a difficult battle, for Galbatorix had enchanted the soldiers so that they felt no pain, and the Varden  

suffered many casualties.

Then Murtagh, Thorn, and a group of Galbatorix's men attacked the Varden. With the help of the elves,  

Eragon and Saphira were able to hold them off, but neither Eragon nor Murtagh could defeat the other. It  

was a difficult battle, for Galbatorix had enchanted the soldiers so that they felt no pain, and the Varden  

suffered many casualties.

And Roran served alongside the Varden, and he rose through their ranks, for he proved himself a skilled  

warrior and a leader of men.

While Eragon was among the dwarves, seven of them tried to assassinate him. An investigation revealed  

that the clan Az Sweldn rak Anhûin was behind the attack. The clanmeet continued, however, and Orik  

was chosen to succeed his uncle. Saphira joined Eragon for the coronation. And during it, she fulfilled her  

promise to repair the dwarves' cherished star sapphire, which she had broken during Eragon's battle  

with the Shade Durza.

Then Eragon and Saphira returned to Du Weldenvarden. There Oromis revealed the truth about  

Eragon's heritage: that he was not, in fact, Morzan's son but Brom's, though he and Murtagh did share  

the same mother, Selena. Oromis and Glaedr also explained the concept of the Eldunarí, which a dragon  

may choose to disgorge while living, though this must be done with great care, for whosoever owns the  

Eldunarí may use it to control the dragon it came from.

While in the forest, Eragon decided that he needed a sword to replace Zar'roc. Remembering the advice  

he had gotten from the werecat Solembum during his journeys with Brom, Eragon went to the sentient  

Menoa tree in Du Weldenvarden. He spoke with the tree, and the tree agreed to give up the brightsteel  

beneath its roots in exchange for an unnamed price.

Then the elf smith Rhunön-who had forged all of the Riders' swords-worked with Eragon to make a  

new blade for him. The sword was blue, and Eragon named it Brisingr-"fire." And the blade burst into  

flame whenever he spoke its name.

Then Glaedr gave trust of his heart of hearts to Eragon and Saphira, and they made their way back to  

the Varden, while Glaedr and Oromis joined the rest of their kind as they attacked the northern part of  

the Empire.

At the siege of Feinster, Eragon and Arya encountered three enemy magicians, one of whom was  

transformed into the Shade Varaug. And with Eragon's help, Arya slew Varaug.

As they did, Oromis and Glaedr fought Murtagh and Thorn. And Galbatorix reached out and took  

command of Murtagh's mind. And with Murtagh's arm, Galbatorix struck down Oromis, and Thorn slew  

Glaedr's body.

And though the Varden were victorious at Feinster, Eragon and Saphira mourned the loss of their  

teacher, Oromis. But still the Varden continued, and even now they march deeper into the Empire,  

toward the capital, Urû'baen, wherein sits Galbatorix, proud, confident, and disdainful, for his is the  

strength of the dragons.

Page 13

INTO THEBREACH

he dragon Saphira roared, and the soldiers before her quailed.

"With me!" shouted Eragon. He lifted Brisingr over his head, holding it aloft for all to see. The blue  

sword flashed bright and iridescent, stark against the wall of black clouds building in the west. "For the  

Varden!"

An arrow whizzed past him; he paid it no mind.

The warriors gathered at the base of the slope of rubble Eragon and Saphira were standing upon  

answered him with a single, full-throated bellow: "The Varden!" They brandished their own weapons and  

charged forward, scrambling up the tumbled blocks of stone.

Eragon turned his back to the men. On the other side of the mound lay a wide courtyard. Two hundred  

or so of the Empire's soldiers stood huddled within. Behind them rose a tall, dark keep with narrow slits  

for windows and several square towers, the tallest of which had a lantern shining in its upper rooms.  

Somewhere within the keep, Eragon knew, was Lord Bradburn, governor of Belatona-the city the  

Varden had been fighting to capture for several long hours.

With a cry, Eragon leaped off the rubble toward the soldiers. The men shuffled backward, although they  

kept their spears and pikes trained on the ragged hole Saphira had torn in the castle's outer wall.

Eragon's right ankle twisted as he landed. He fell to his knee and caught himself on the ground with his  

sword hand.

One of the soldiers seized the opportunity to dart out of formation and stab his spear at Eragon's  

exposed throat.

Eragon parried the thrust with a flick of his wrist, swinging Brisingr faster than either a human or an elf  

could follow. The soldier's face grew slack with fear as he realized his mistake. He tried to flee, but  

before he could move more than a few inches, Eragon lunged forward and took him in the gut.

With a pennant of blue and yellow flame streaming from her maw, Saphira jumped into the courtyard  

after Eragon. He crouched and tensed his legs as she struck the paved ground. The impact shook the  

entire courtyard. Many of the chips of glass that formed a large, colorful mosaic in front of the keep  

popped loose and flew spinning upward like coins bounced off a drum. Above, a pair of shutters banged  

open and closed in a window of the building.

The elf Arya accompanied Saphira. Her long black hair billowed wildly around her angular face as she  

sprang off the pile of rubble. Lines of splattered blood striped her arms and neck; gore smeared the  

blade of her sword. She alit with a soft scuff of leather against stone.

Her presence heartened Eragon. There was no one else whom he would rather have fighting alongside  

him and Saphira. She was, he thought, the perfect shield mate.

Page 14

He loosed a quick smile at her, and Arya responded in kind, her expression fierce and joyous. In battle,  

her reserved demeanor vanished, replaced by an openness that she rarely displayed elsewhere.

He loosed a quick smile at her, and Arya responded in kind, her expression fierce and joyous. In battle,  

her reserved demeanor vanished, replaced by an openness that she rarely displayed elsewhere.

A line of archers on the battlements of the castle keep let fly a volley of arrows at Saphira. The heat  

above her was so intense that a handful of the arrows burst into fire in midair and crumbled to ash, while  

the magical wards Eragon had placed around Saphira deflected the rest. One of the stray arrows  

rebounded off Eragon's shield with a hollowthud , denting it.

The plume of flame suddenly enveloped three of the soldiers, killing them so quickly, they did not even  

have time to scream. The other soldiers clustered in the center of the inferno, the blades of their spears  

and pikes reflecting flashes of bright blue light.

Try though she might, Saphira could not so much as singe the survivors. At last she abandoned her  

efforts and closed her jaws with a definitivesnap . The fire's absence left the courtyard startlingly quiet.

It occurred to Eragon, as it had several times before, that whoever had given the soldiers their wards  

must have been a skilled and powerful magician.Was it Murtagh? he wondered.If so, why aren't he  

and Thorn here to defend Belatona? Doesn't Galbatorix care to keep control of his cities?

Eragon ran forward and, with a single stroke of Brisingr, lopped off the tops of a dozen polearms as  

easily as he had flicked off the seed heads of barley stalks when he was younger. He slashed the nearest  

soldier across the chest, slicing through his mail as if it were the flimsiest of cloth. A fountain of blood  

arose. Then Eragon stabbed the next soldier in line and struck the soldier to his left with his shield,  

knocking the man into three of his companions and bowling them over.

The soldiers' reactions seemed slow and clumsy to Eragon as he danced through their ranks, cutting  

them down with impunity. Saphira waded into the fray to his left-batting the soldiers into the air with her  

enormous paws, lashing them with her spiked tail, and biting and killing them with a shake of her  

head-while, to his right, Arya was a blur of motion, every swing of her sword signaling death for  

another servant of the Empire. When Eragon spun around to evade a pair of spears, he saw the  

fur-covered elf Blödhgarm close behind, as well as the eleven other elves whose task it was to guard him  

and Saphira.

Farther back, the Varden poured into the courtyard through the gap in the castle's outer wall, but the  

men refrained from attacking; it was too dangerous to go anywhere near Saphira. Neither she nor Eragon  

nor the elves required assistance in disposing of the soldiers.

The battle soon swept Eragon and Saphira apart, carrying them to opposite ends of the courtyard.  

Eragon was not concerned. Even without her wards, Saphira was more than capable of defeating a large  

group of twenty or thirty humans by herself.

A spear thudded against Eragon's shield, bruising his shoulder. He whirled toward the thrower, a big,  

scarred man missing his lower front teeth, and sprinted at him. The man struggled to draw a dagger from  

his belt. At the last moment, Eragon twisted, tensed his arms and chest, and rammed his sore shoulder  

into the man's sternum.

The force of the impact drove the soldier backward several yards, whereupon he collapsed, clutching at

Page 15

his heart.

his heart.

A bitter smile twisted Eragon's lips. The archers above had realized that their only hope of victory lay in  

somehow killing Eragon and the elves, no matter how many of their own they had to sacrifice to do so.

You're too late, thought Eragon with grim satisfaction.You should have left the Empire while you still  

had the chance .

The onslaught of clattering arrows gave him the chance to rest for a moment, which he welcomed. The  

attack on the city had begun at daybreak, and he and Saphira had been at its forefront the whole while.

Once the arrows ceased, Eragon transferred Brisingr to his left hand, picked up one of the soldiers'  

spears, and heaved it at the archers forty feet above. As Eragon had discovered, spears were difficult to  

throw accurately without substantial practice. It did not surprise him, then, when he missed the man he  

was aiming for, but hewas surprised when he missed the entire line of archers on the battlements. The  

spear sailed over them and shattered against the castle wall overhead. The archers laughed and jeered,  

making rude gestures.

A swift movement at the periphery of his vision caught Eragon's attention. He looked just in time to see  

Arya launch her own spear at the archers; it impaled two who were standing close together. Then Arya  

pointed at the men with her sword and said, "Brisingr!" and the spear burst into emerald-green fire.

The archers shrank from the burning corpses and, as one, fled from the battlements, crowding through  

the doorways that led to the upper levels of the castle.

"That's not fair," Eragon said. "I can't use that spell, not without my sword flaring up like a bonfire."

Arya gazed at him with a faint hint of amusement.

The fighting continued for another few minutes, whereupon the remaining soldiers either surrendered or  

tried to flee.

Eragon allowed the five men in front of him to run away; he knew they would not get far. After a quick  

examination of the bodies that lay sprawled around him to confirm that they were indeed dead, he looked  

back across the courtyard. Some of the Varden had opened the gates in the outer wall and were carrying  

a battering ram through the street leading to the castle. Others were assembling in ragged lines next to the  

keep door, ready to enter the castle and confront the soldiers within. Among them stood Eragon's  

cousin, Roran, gesturing with his ever-present hammer while he issued orders to the detachment under his  

command. At the far end of the courtyard, Saphira crouched over the corpses of her kills, the area  

around her a shambles. Beads of blood clung to her gemlike scales, the spots of red in startling contrast  

to the blue of her body. She threw back her spiky head and roared her triumph, drowning out the clamor  

of the city with the ferocity of her cry.

Then, from inside the castle, Eragon heard the rattle of gears and chains, followed by the scrape of  

heavy wooden beams being drawn back. The sounds attracted everyone's gaze to the doors of the keep.

Page 16

With a hollowboom , the doors parted and swung open. A thick cloud of smoke from the torches within  

billowed outward, causing the nearest of the Varden to cough and cover their faces. From somewhere in  

the depths of the gloom came the drumming of ironclad hooves against the paving stones; then a horse  

and rider burst forth from the center of the smoke. In his left hand, the rider held what Eragon first took  

to be a common lance, but he soon noticed that it was made of a strange green material and had a  

barbed blade forged in an unfamiliar pattern. A faint glow surrounded the head of the lance, the unnatural  

light betraying the presence of magic.

With a hollowboom , the doors parted and swung open. A thick cloud of smoke from the torches within  

billowed outward, causing the nearest of the Varden to cough and cover their faces. From somewhere in  

the depths of the gloom came the drumming of ironclad hooves against the paving stones; then a horse  

and rider burst forth from the center of the smoke. In his left hand, the rider held what Eragon first took  

to be a common lance, but he soon noticed that it was made of a strange green material and had a  

barbed blade forged in an unfamiliar pattern. A faint glow surrounded the head of the lance, the unnatural  

light betraying the presence of magic.

Concern clutched at Eragon. The rider was too sure of himself, the lance too different, too eerie. Though  

her wards ought to protect her, Eragon was certain Saphira was in mortal danger.

I won't be able to reach her in time, he realized. He cast his mind toward the rider, but the man was  

so focused on his task that he did not even notice Eragon's presence, and his unwavering concentration  

prevented Eragon from gaining more than superficial access to his consciousness. Withdrawing into  

himself, Eragon reviewed a half-dozen words from the ancient language and composed a simple spell to  

stop the galloping war-horse in his tracks. It was a desperate act-for Eragon knew not if the rider was a  

magician himself or what precautions he might have taken against being attacked with magic-but Eragon  

was not about to stand by idly when Saphira's life was at risk.

Eragon filled his lungs. He reminded himself of the correct pronunciation of several difficult sounds in the  

ancient language. Then he opened his mouth to deliver the spell.

Fast as he was, the elves were faster still. Before he could utter a single word, a frenzy of low chanting  

erupted behind him, the overlapping voices forming a discordant and unsettling melody.

"Mäe-" he managed to say, and then the elves' magic took effect.

The mosaic in front of the horse stirred and shifted, and the chips of glass flowed like water. A long rift  

opened up in the ground, a gaping crevice of uncertain depth. With a loud scream, the horse plunged into  

the hole and pitched forward, breaking both of its front legs.

As horse and rider fell, the man in the saddle drew back his arm and threw the glowing lance toward  

Saphira.

Saphira could not run. She could not dodge. So she swung a paw at the dart, hoping to knock it aside.  

She missed, however-by a matter of inches-and Eragon watched with horror as the lance sank a yard  

or more into her chest, just under her collarbone.

A pulsing veil of rage descended over Eragon's vision. He drew upon every store of energy available to  

him-his body; the sapphire set in the pommel of his sword; the twelve diamonds hidden in the belt of  

Beloth the Wise wrapped round his waist; and the massive store within Aren, the elf ring that graced his  

right hand-as he prepared to obliterate the rider, heedless of the risk.

Eragon stopped himself, however, when Blödhgarm appeared, leaping over Saphira's left foreleg. The  

elf landed on the rider like a panther pouncing on a deer, and knocked the man onto his side. With a  

savage twist of his head, Blödhgarm tore open the man's throat with his long white teeth.

A shriek of all-consuming despair emanated from a window high above the open entrance to the keep,

Page 17

followed by a fiery explosion that ejected blocks of stone from within the building, blocks that landed  

amid the assembled Varden, crushing limbs and torsos like dry twigs.

followed by a fiery explosion that ejected blocks of stone from within the building, blocks that landed  

amid the assembled Varden, crushing limbs and torsos like dry twigs.

"How badly-Is she-" Eragon said, too upset to complete his sentences. He yearned to speak to  

Saphira with his mind, but as long as enemy spellcasters might be in the area, he dared not expose his  

consciousness to her, lest his foes spy on his thoughts or assume command over his body.

After a seemingly interminable wait, Wyrden, one of the male elves, said, "You may thank fate,  

Shadeslayer; the lance missed the major veins and arteries in her neck. It hit only muscle, and muscle we  

can mend."

"Can you remove it? Does it have any spells that would keep it from being-"

"We shall attend to it, Shadeslayer."

Grave as priests gathered before an altar, all the elves, save Blödhgarm, placed the palms of their hands  

on Saphira's breast and, like a whisper of wind ghosting through a stand of willow trees, they sang. Of  

warmth and growth they sang, of muscle and sinew and pulsing blood they sang, and of other, more  

arcane subjects. With what must have been an enormous effort of will, Saphira held her position  

throughout the incantation, though fits of tremors shook her body every few seconds. A thread of blood  

rolled down her chest from the shaft embedded within.

As Blödhgarm moved to stand next to him, Eragon spared a glance for the elf. Gore matted the fur on  

his chin and neck, darkening its shade from midnight blue to solid black.

"What was that?" Eragon asked, indicating the flames still dancing in the window high above the  

courtyard.

Blödhgarm licked his lips, baring his catlike fangs, before answering. "In the moment before he died, I  

was able to enter the soldier's mind, and through it, the mind of the magician who was assisting him."

"You killed the magician?"

"In a manner of speaking; I forced him to kill himself. I would not normally resort to such an extravagant  

display of theatrics, but I was ... aggravated."

Eragon started forward, then checked himself when Saphira uttered a long, low moan as, without  

anyone touching it, the lance began to slide out of her chest. Her eyelids fluttered and she took a series of  

quick, shallow breaths while the last six inches of the lance emerged from her body. The barbed blade,  

with its faint nimbus of emerald light, fell to the ground and bounced against the paving stones, sounding  

more like pottery than metal.

When the elves stopped singing and lifted their hands from Saphira, Eragon rushed to her side and  

touched her neck. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her how frightened he had been, to join his  

consciousness with hers. Instead, he settled for looking up into one of her brilliant blue eyes and asking,  

"Are you all right?" The words seemed paltry when compared with the depth of his emotion.

Page 18

Saphira replied with a single blink, then lowered her head and caressed his face with a gentle puff of  

warm air from her nostrils.

Saphira replied with a single blink, then lowered her head and caressed his face with a gentle puff of  

warm air from her nostrils.

"Fall back and rest," he told them. "You'll only get yourselves killed if you stay. Go on, that's an order!"

Though Eragon was sure they hated to leave, the seven elves responded with, "As you wish,  

Shadeslayer," and withdrew from the courtyard, striding over the corpses and rubble. They appeared  

noble and dignified, even when at the limits of their endurance.

Then Eragon joined Arya and Blödhgarm, who were studying the lance, a strange expression on both  

their faces, as if they were uncertain how they ought to react. Eragon squatted next to them, careful not to  

allow any part of his body to brush against the weapon. He stared at the delicate lines carved around the  

base of the blade, lines that seemed familiar to him, although he was not sure why; at the greenish haft,  

which was made of a material neither wood nor metal; and again at the smooth glow that reminded him of  

the flameless lanterns that the elves and the dwarves used to light their halls.

"Is it Galbatorix's handiwork, do you think?" Eragon asked. "Maybe he's decided he would rather kill  

Saphira and me instead of capturing us. Maybe he believes we've actually become a threat to him."

Blödhgarm smiled an unpleasant smile. "I would not deceive myself with such fantasies, Shadeslayer.  

We are no more than a minor annoyance to Galbatorix. If ever he truly wanted you or any of us dead, he  

only needs to fly forth from Urû'baen and engage us directly in battle, and we would fall before him like  

dry leaves before a winter storm. The strength of the dragons is with him, and none can withstand his  

might. Besides, Galbatorix is not so easily turned from his course. Mad he may be, but cunning also, and  

above all else, determined. If he desires your enslavement, then he shall pursue that goal to the point of  

obsession, and nothing save the instinct of self-preservation shall deter him."

"In any event," said Arya, "this is not Galbatorix's handiwork; it is ours."

Eragon frowned. "Ours? This wasn't made by the Varden."

"Not by the Varden, but by an elf."

"But-" He stopped, trying to find a rational explanation. "But no elf would agree to work for  

Galbatorix. They would rather die than-"

"Galbatorix had nothing to do with this, and even if he did, he would hardly give such a rare and  

powerful weapon to a man who could not better guard it. Of all the instruments of war scattered  

throughout Alagaësia, this is the one Galbatorix would least want us to have."

"Why?"

With a hint of a purr in his low, rich voice, Blödhgarm said, "Because, Eragon Shadeslayer,this is a  

Dauthdaert."

Page 19

"And its name is Niernen, the Orchid," said Arya. She pointed at the lines carved into the blade, lines  

that Eragon then realized were actually stylized glyphs from the elves' unique system of writing-curving,  

intertwined shapes that terminated in long, thornlike points.

"And its name is Niernen, the Orchid," said Arya. She pointed at the lines carved into the blade, lines  

that Eragon then realized were actually stylized glyphs from the elves' unique system of writing-curving,  

intertwined shapes that terminated in long, thornlike points.

Blödhgarm shook his head. "Niernen is far, far older than that."

"The Dauthdaertya," said Arya, "were born out of the fear and the hate that marked the final years of  

our war with the dragons. Our most skilled smiths and spellcasters crafted them out of materials we no  

longer understand, imbued them with enchantments whose wordings we no longer remember, and named  

them, all twelve of them, after the most beautiful of flowers-as ugly a mismatch as ever there was-for  

we made them with but one purpose in mind: we made them to kill dragons."

Revulsion overtook Eragon as he gazed at the glowing lance. "And did they?"

"Those who were present say that the dragons' blood rained from the sky like a summer downpour."

Saphira hissed, loud and sharp.

Eragon glanced back at her for a moment and saw out of the corner of his eye that the Varden were still  

holding their position before the keep, waiting for him and Saphira to retake the lead in the offensive.

"All of the Dauthdaertya were thought to have been destroyed or lost beyond recovery," said  

Blödhgarm. "Obviously, we were mistaken. Niernen must have passed into the hands of the Waldgrave  

family, and they must have kept it hidden here in Belatona. I would guess that when we breached the city  

walls, Lord Bradburn's courage failed him and he ordered Niernen brought from his armory in an attempt  

to stop you and Saphira. No doubt Galbatorix would be angry beyond reason if he knew that Bradburn  

had tried to kill you."

Although he was aware of the need for haste, Eragon's curiosity would not let him leave just yet.  

"Dauthdaert or not, you still haven't explained why Galbatorix wouldn't want us to have this." He  

motioned toward the lance. "What makes Niernen any more dangerous than that spear over there, or  

even Bris-" he caught himself before he uttered the entire name, "or my own sword?"

It was Arya who answered. "It cannot be broken by any normal means, cannot be harmed by fire, and  

is almost completely impervious to magic, as you yourself saw. The Dauthdaertya were designed to be  

unaffected by whatever spells the dragons might work and to protect their wielder from the same-a  

daunting prospect, given the strength, complexity, and unexpected nature of dragons' magic. Galbatorix  

may have wrapped Shruikan and himself in more wards than anyone else in Alagaësia, but it is possible  

that Niernen could pass through their defenses as if they don't even exist."

Eragon understood, and elation filled him. "We have to-"

A squeal interrupted him.

The sound was stabbing, slicing, shivering, like metal scraping against stone. Eragon's teeth vibrated in

Page 20

sympathy and he covered his ears with his hands, grimacing as he twisted around, trying to locate the  

source of the noise. Saphira tossed her head, and even through the din, he heard her whine in distress.

sympathy and he covered his ears with his hands, grimacing as he twisted around, trying to locate the  

source of the noise. Saphira tossed her head, and even through the din, he heard her whine in distress.

"Look!" he shouted to Arya, who nodded in acknowledgment. He replaced his hand over his ear.

Without warning or preamble, the sound stopped.

Eragon waited for a moment, then slowly lowered his hands, for once wishing that his hearing were not  

quite so sensitive.

Just as he did, the crack jerked open wider-spreading until it was several feet across-and raced  

down the wall of the keep. Like a bolt of lightning, the crack struck and shattered the keystone above the  

doors to the building, showering the floor below with pebbles. The whole castle groaned, and from the  

damaged window to the broken keystone, the front of the keep began to lean outward.

"Run!" Eragon shouted at the Varden, though the men were already scattering to either side of the  

courtyard, desperate to get out from under the precarious wall. Eragon took a single step forward, every  

muscle in his body tense as he searched for a glimpse of Roran somewhere in the throng of warriors.

At last Eragon spotted him, trapped behind the last group of men by the doorway, bellowing madly at  

them, his words lost in the commotion. Then the wall shifted and dropped several inches-leaning even  

farther away from the rest of the building-pelting Roran with rocks, knocking him off balance, and  

forcing him to stumble backward under the overhang of the doorway.

As Roran straightened from a crouch, his eyes met Eragon's, and in his gaze Eragon saw a flash of fear  

and helplessness, quickly followed by resignation, as if Roran knew that, no matter how fast he ran, he  

could not possibly reach safety in time.

A wry smile touched Roran's lips.

And the wall fell.

HAMMERFALL

o!" shouted Eragon as the wall of the keep tumbled down with a thunderous crash, burying Roran and  

five other men beneath a mound of stone twenty feet high and flooding the courtyard with a dark cloud of  

dust.

Eragon's shout was so loud, his voice broke, and slick, copper-tasting blood coated the back of his  

throat. He inhaled and doubled over, coughing.

"Vaetna," he gasped, and waved his hand. With a sound like rustling silk, the thick gray dust parted,

Page 21

leaving the center of the courtyard clear. Concerned as he was for Roran, Eragon barely noticed the  

strength the spell took from him.

leaving the center of the courtyard clear. Concerned as he was for Roran, Eragon barely noticed the  

strength the spell took from him.

Before him, Arya and the other warriors of the Varden stood coughing and rubbing their eyes with the  

palms of their hands. Many were hunched over, as if expecting a blow; others gaped at the front of the  

damaged keep. The rubble from the building spilled into the middle of the courtyard, obscuring the  

mosaic. Two and a half rooms on the second story of the keep, and one on the third-the room where  

the magician had expired so violently-stood exposed to the elements. The chambers and their  

furnishings seemed dirty and rather shabby in the full light of the sun. Within, a half-dozen soldiers armed  

with crossbows were scrambling back from the drop they now found themselves standing by. With much  

pushing and shoving, they hurried through the doors at the far ends of the rooms and vanished into the  

depths of the keep.

Eragon tried to guess the weight of a block in the pile of rubble; it must have been many hundreds of  

pounds. If he, Saphira, and the elves all worked together, he was sure that they could shift the stones  

with magic, but the effort would leave them weak and vulnerable. Moreover, it would take an  

impractically long time. For a moment, Eragon thought of Glaedr-the golden dragon was more than  

strong enough to lift the whole pile at once-but haste was of the essence, and Glaedr's Eldunarí would  

take too long to retrieve. In any case, Eragon knew that he might not even be able to convince Glaedr to  

talk with him, much less to help rescue Roran and the other men.

Then Eragon pictured Roran as he had appeared just before the deluge of stones and dust had hidden  

him from view, standing underneath the eaves of the doorway to the keep, and with a start, he realized  

what to do.

"Saphira, help them!" Eragon shouted as he cast aside his shield and bounded forward.

Behind him, he heard Arya say something in the ancient language-a short phrase that might have been  

"Hide this!" Then she had caught up to him, running with her sword in hand, ready to fight.

When he reached the base of the rubble, Eragon leaped as high as he could. He alit with a single foot  

upon the slanting face of a block and then jumped again, bounding from point to point like a mountain  

goat scaling the side of a gorge. He hated to risk disturbing the blocks, but climbing the pile was the  

fastest way to reach his destination.

With one last lunge, Eragon cleared the edge of the second story, then raced across the room. He  

shoved the door in front of him with such force that he broke the latch and hinges and sent the door flying  

into the wall of the corridor beyond, splitting the heavy oak planks.

Eragon sprinted down the corridor. His footsteps and his breathing sounded strangely muted to him, as if  

his ears were filled with water.

He slowed as he drew near an open doorway. Through it, he saw a study with five armed men pointing  

at a map and arguing. None of them noticed Eragon.

He kept running.

Page 22

He sped around a corner and collided with a soldier walking in the opposite direction. Eragon's vision  

flashed red and yellow as his forehead struck the rim of the man's shield. He clung to the soldier, and the  

two of them staggered back and forth across the corridor like a pair of drunk dancers.

He sped around a corner and collided with a soldier walking in the opposite direction. Eragon's vision  

flashed red and yellow as his forehead struck the rim of the man's shield. He clung to the soldier, and the  

two of them staggered back and forth across the corridor like a pair of drunk dancers.

Eragon balled his right hand and punched the man in the belly, directly underneath his rib cage. The blow  

lifted the man off his feet and smashed him into the ceiling. "Me," Eragon agreed as the man dropped to  

the floor, lifeless.

Eragon continued down the corridor. His already rapid pulse seemed to have doubled since he entered  

the keep; he felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.

Where is it?he thought, frantic as he glanced through yet another doorway and saw nothing but an  

empty room.

At last, at the end of a dingy side passage, he caught sight of a winding staircase. He took the stairs five  

at a time, heedless of his own safety as he descended toward the first story, pausing only to push a  

startled archer out of his way.

The stairs ended, and he emerged into a high-vaulted chamber reminiscent of the cathedral in  

Dras-Leona. He spun around, gathering quick impressions: shields and arms and red pennants hung on  

the walls; narrow windows close under the ceiling; torches mounted in wrought-iron brackets; empty  

fireplaces; long, dark trestle tables stacked along both sides of the hall; and a dais at the head of the  

room, where a robed and bearded man stood before a high-backed chair. Eragon was in the main hall of  

the castle. To his right, between him and the doors that led to the entrance of the keep, was a contingent  

of fifty or more soldiers. The gold thread in their tunics glittered as they stirred with surprise.

"Kill him!" the robed man ordered, sounding more frightened than lordly. "Whosoever kills him shall  

have a third of my treasure! So I promise!"

A terrible frustration welled up inside Eragon at being delayed once again. He tore his sword from its  

scabbard, lifted it over his head, and shouted:

"Brisingr!"

With a rush of air, a cocoon of wraithlike blue flames sprang into existence around the blade, running up  

toward the tip. The heat from the fire warmed Eragon's hand, arm, and the side of his face.

Then Eragon lowered his gaze to the soldiers. "Move," he growled.

The soldiers hesitated a moment more, then turned and fled.

Eragon charged forward, ignoring the panicked laggards within reach of his burning sword. One man  

tripped and fell before him; Eragon jumped completely over the soldier, not even touching the tassel on  

his helm.

The wind from Eragon's passage tore at the flames on the blade, stretching them out behind the sword  

like the mane of a galloping horse.

Page 23

Hunching his shoulders, Eragon bulled past the double doors that guarded the entrance to the main hall.  

He dashed through a long, wide chamber edged with rooms full of soldiers-as well as gears, pulleys,  

and other mechanisms used for raising and lowering the gates of the keep-and then ran full tilt into the  

portcullis that blocked the way to where Roran had been standing when the keep wall collapsed.

Hunching his shoulders, Eragon bulled past the double doors that guarded the entrance to the main hall.  

He dashed through a long, wide chamber edged with rooms full of soldiers-as well as gears, pulleys,  

and other mechanisms used for raising and lowering the gates of the keep-and then ran full tilt into the  

portcullis that blocked the way to where Roran had been standing when the keep wall collapsed.

He staggered back a step.

He again channeled energy stored within the diamonds of his belt-the belt of Beloth the Wise-and  

into Brisingr, emptying the gemstones of their precious store as he stoked the sword's fire to an almost  

unbearable intensity. A wordless shout escaped him as he drew back his arm and struck at the portcullis.  

Orange and yellow sparks sprayed him, pitting his gloves and tunic and stinging his exposed flesh. A drop  

of molten iron fell sizzling onto the tip of his boot. With a twitch of his ankle, he shook it off.

Three cuts he made, and a man-sized section of the portcullis fell inward. The severed ends of the  

grating glowed white-hot, lighting the area with their soft radiance.

Eragon allowed the flames rising from Brisingr to die out as he proceeded through the opening he had  

created.

First to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again he ran as the passage alternated directions, the  

convoluted path designed to slow the advance of troops if they managed to gain access to the keep.

When he rounded the last corner, Eragon saw his destination: the debris-choked vestibule. Even with his  

elflike vision, he could make out only the largest shapes in the darkness, for the falling stones had  

extinguished the torches on the walls. He heard an odd huffing and scuffling, as if some sort of clumsy  

beast were rooting through the rubble.

"Naina," said Eragon.

A directionless blue light illuminated the space. And there before him, covered in dirt, blood, ash, and  

sweat, with his teeth bared in a fearsome snarl, appeared Roran, grappling with a soldier over the  

corpses of two others.

The soldier winced at the sudden brightness, and Roran took advantage of the man's distraction to twist  

and push him to his knees, whereupon he grabbed the soldier's dagger from his belt and drove it up  

under the corner of his jaw.

The soldier kicked twice and then was still.

Panting for breath, Roran rose from the body, blood dripping from his fingers. He looked over at Eragon  

with a curiously glazed expression.

"About time you-" he said, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he fainted.

SHADOWS ON THEHORIZON

Page 24

n order to catch Roran before he struck the floor, Eragon had to drop Brisingr, which he was reluctant to  

do. Nevertheless, he opened his hand, and the sword clattered against the stones even as Roran's weight  

settled into his arms.

n order to catch Roran before he struck the floor, Eragon had to drop Brisingr, which he was reluctant to  

do. Nevertheless, he opened his hand, and the sword clattered against the stones even as Roran's weight  

settled into his arms.

Eragon flinched, surprised to find her and Blödhgarm standing next to him. "I don't think so." He patted  

Roran's cheeks several times, smearing the dust on his skin. In the flat, ice-blue glare of Eragon's spell,  

Roran appeared gaunt, his eyes surrounded by bruised shadows, and his lips a purplish color, as if  

stained with the juice from berries. "Come on, wake up."

After a few seconds, Roran's eyelids twitched; then he opened them and looked at Eragon, obviously  

confused. Relief washed over Eragon, so strong he could taste it. "You blacked out for a moment," he  

explained.

"Ah."

He's alive!Eragon said to Saphira, risking a brief moment of contact.

Her pleasure was obvious.Good. I will stay here and help the elves move the stones away from the  

building. If you need me, shout, and I'll find a way to reach you .

Roran's mail tinkled as Eragon helped him onto his feet. "What of the others?" Eragon asked, and  

gestured toward the mound of rubble.

Roran shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"No one could have survived under there. I only escaped because ... because I was partially sheltered  

by the eaves."

"And you? You're all right?" Eragon asked.

"What?" Roran frowned, seeming distracted, as if the thought had not even occurred to him. "I'm  

fine.... Wrist might be broken. It's not bad."

Eragon cast a meaningful glance at Blödhgarm. The elf's features tightened with a faint display of  

displeasure, but he went over to Roran and, in a smooth voice, said, "If I may...." He extended a hand  

toward Roran's injured arm.

While Blödhgarm labored over Roran, Eragon picked up Brisingr, then stood guard with Arya at the  

entrance in case any soldiers were so foolhardy as to launch an attack.

"There, all done," Blödhgarm said. He moved away from Roran, who rolled his wrist in a circle, testing  

the joint.

Satisfied, Roran thanked Blödhgarm, then lowered his hand and cast about the rubble-strewn floor until  

he found his hammer. He readjusted the position of his armor and looked out the entrance. "I've about  

had my fill of this Lord Bradburn," he said in a deceptively calm tone. "He has held his seat overlong, I

Page 25

think, and ought to be relieved of his responsibilities. Wouldn't you agree, Arya?"

think, and ought to be relieved of his responsibilities. Wouldn't you agree, Arya?"

"Well then, let's find the soft-bellied old fool; I would give him a few gentle taps from my hammer in  

memory of everyone we have lost today."

"He was in the main hall a few minutes ago," Eragon said, "but I doubt he stayed to await our return."

Roran nodded. "Then we'll have to hunt him down." And with that, he strode forward.

Eragon extinguished his illuminating spell and hurried after his cousin, holding Brisingr at the ready. Arya  

and Blödhgarm stayed as close beside him as the convoluted passageway would allow.

The chamber that the passageway led to was abandoned, as was the main hall of the castle, where the  

only evidence of the dozens of soldiers and officials who had populated it was a helmet that lay on the  

floor, rocking back and forth in ever-decreasing arcs.

Eragon and Roran ran past the marble dais, Eragon restricting his speed so as not to leave Roran  

behind. They kicked down a door just to the left of the platform and rushed up the stairs beyond.

At each story, they paused so that Blödhgarm could search with his mind for any trace of Lord  

Bradburn and his retinue, but he found none.

As they reached the third level, Eragon heard a stampede of footsteps and saw a thicket of jabbing  

spears fill the curved archway in front of Roran. The spears cut Roran on the cheek and on his right thigh,  

coating his knee with blood. He bellowed like a wounded bear and rammed into the spears with his  

shield, trying to push his way up the last few steps and out of the stairwell. Men shouted frantically.

Behind Roran, Eragon switched Brisingr to his left hand, then reached around his cousin, grabbed one of  

the spears by the haft, and yanked it out of the grip of whoever was holding it. He flipped the spear  

around and threw it into the center of the men packed in the archway. Someone screamed, and a gap  

appeared in the wall of bodies. Eragon repeated the process, and his throws soon reduced the number of  

soldiers enough that, step by step, Roran was able to force the mass of men back.

As soon as Roran won clear of the stairs, the twelve remaining soldiers scattered across a wide landing  

fringed with balustrades, each man seeking room to swing his weapon without obstruction. Roran  

bellowed again and leaped after the nearest soldier. He parried the man's sword, then stepped past his  

guard and struck the man on his helm, which rang like an iron pot.

Eragon sprinted across the landing and tackled a pair of soldiers who were standing close together. He  

knocked them to the ground, then dispatched each of them with a single thrust of Brisingr. An ax hurtled  

toward him, whirling end over end. He ducked and pushed a man over a balustrade before engaging two  

others who were trying to disembowel him with billed pikes.

Then Arya and Blödhgarm were moving among the men, silent and deadly, the elves' inherent grace  

making the violence appear more like an artfully staged performance than the sordid struggle most fights  

were.

In a rush of clanging metal, broken bones, and severed limbs, the four of them killed the rest of the  

soldiers. As always, the combat exhilarated Eragon; it felt to him like being shocked with a bucket of

Page 26

cold water, and it left him with a sense of clarity unequaled by any other activity.

cold water, and it left him with a sense of clarity unequaled by any other activity.

"Shall I?" asked Eragon, gesturing at the cuts on Roran's face and thigh.

Roran tested his weight on the wounded leg a few times. "I can wait. Let's find Bradburn first."

Eragon took the lead as they filed back into the stairwell and resumed their climb. At last, after another  

five minutes of searching, they found Lord Bradburn barricaded within the highest room of the keep's  

westernmost tower. With a series of spells, Eragon, Arya, and Blödhgarm disassembled the doors and  

the tower of furniture piled behind them. As they and Roran entered the chambers, the high-ranking  

retainers and castle guards who had gathered in front of Lord Bradburn blanched, and many began to  

shake. To Eragon's relief, he only had to kill three of the guards before the rest of the group placed their  

weapons and shields on the floor in surrender.

Then Arya marched over to Lord Bradburn, who had remained silent throughout, and said, "Now, will  

you order your forces to stand down? Only a few remain, but you can still save their lives."

"I would not even if I could," said Bradburn in a voice of such hate and sneering derision, Eragon almost  

struck him. "You'll have no concessions from me, elf. I'll not give up my men to filthy, unnatural creatures  

such as you. Death would be preferable. And do not think you can beguile me with honeyed words. I  

know of your alliance with the Urgals, and I would sooner trust a snake than a person who breaks bread  

with those monsters."

Arya nodded and placed her hand over Bradburn's face. She closed her eyes, and for a time, both she  

and Bradburn were motionless. Eragon reached out with his mind, and he felt the battle of wills that was  

raging between them as Arya worked her way past Bradburn's defenses and into his consciousness. It  

took a minute, but at last she gained control of the man's mind, whereupon she set about calling up and  

examining his memories until she discovered the nature of his wards.

Then she spoke in the ancient language and cast a complex spell designed to circumvent those wards  

and to put Bradburn to sleep. When she finished, Bradburn's eyes closed and, with a sigh, he collapsed  

into her arms.

"She killed him!" shouted one of the guards, and cries of fear and outrage spread among the men.

As Eragon attempted to convince them otherwise, he heard one of the Varden's trumpets being winded  

far off in the distance. Soon another trumpet sounded, this one much closer, then another, and then he  

caught snatches of what he would have sworn were faint, scattered cheers rising from the courtyard  

below.

Puzzled, he exchanged glances with Arya; then they turned in a circle, looking out each of the windows  

set within the walls of the chamber.

To the west and south lay Belatona. It was a large, prosperous city, one of the largest in the Empire.  

Close to the castle, the buildings were imposing structures made of stone, with pitched roofs and oriel  

windows, while farther away they were constructed of wood and plaster. Several of the half-timbered  

buildings had caught fire during the fighting. The smoke filled the air with a layer of brown haze that stung  

eyes and throats.

Page 27

To the southwest, a mile beyond the city, was the Varden's camp: long rows of gray woolen tents ringed  

by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly colored pavilions sporting flags and pennants, and stretched out on  

the bare ground, hundreds of wounded men. The healers' tents were already filled to capacity.

To the southwest, a mile beyond the city, was the Varden's camp: long rows of gray woolen tents ringed  

by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly colored pavilions sporting flags and pennants, and stretched out on  

the bare ground, hundreds of wounded men. The healers' tents were already filled to capacity.

Above, the wall of black clouds that was advancing from the west loomed high over the city, threatening  

to envelop it within the folds of rain that fell skirtlike from its underside. Blue light flickered here and there  

in the depths of the storm, and thunder rumbled like an angry beast.

But nowhere did Eragon see an explanation for the commotion that had attracted his attention.

He and Arya hurried over to the window directly above the courtyard. Saphira and the men and elves  

working with her had just finished clearing away the stones in front of the keep. Eragon whistled, and  

when Saphira looked up, he waved. Her long jaws parted in a toothy grin, and she blew a streamer of  

smoke toward him.

"Ho! What news?" Eragon shouted.

One of the Varden standing on the castle walls raised an arm and pointed eastward. "Shadeslayer!  

Look! The werecats are coming! The werecats are coming!"

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon's spine. He followed the line of the man's arm eastward, and this  

time he saw a host of small, shadowy figures emerging from a fold in the land several miles away, on the  

other side of the Jiet River. Some of the figures went on four legs and some on two, but they were too far  

away for him to be sure if they were werecats.

"Could it be?" asked Arya, sounding amazed.

"I don't know.... Whatever they are, we'll find out soon enough."

KINGCAT

ragon stood on the dais in the main hall of the keep, directly to the right of Lord Bradburn's throne, his  

left hand on the pommel of Brisingr, which was sheathed. On the other side of the throne stood  

Jörmundur-senior commander of the Varden-holding his helmet in the crook of his arm. The hair at his  

temples was streaked with gray; the rest was brown, and all of it was pulled back into a long braid. His  

lean face bore the studiously blank expression of a person who had extensive experience waiting on  

others. Eragon noticed a thin line of red running along the underside of Jörmundur's right bracer, but  

Jörmundur showed no sign of pain.

Between them sat their leader, Nasuada, resplendent in a dress of green and yellow, which she had  

donned just moments before, exchanging the raiment of war for garb more suited to the practice of  

statecraft. She too had been marked during the fighting, as was evidenced by the linen bandage wrapped  

around her left hand.

Page 28

In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, "If we can but gain their  

support ..."

In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, "If we can but gain their  

support ..."

Her lips barely moving, she said, "Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at  

Galbatorix." She paused. "But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to  

join our ranks."

"You could offer them barrels of cream," said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from Jörmundur and a  

soft laugh from Nasuada.

Their murmured conversation came to an end as three trumpets sounded outside the main hall. Then a  

flaxen-haired page dressed in a tunic stitched with the Varden's standard-a white dragon holding a rose  

above a sword pointing downward on a purple field-marched through the open doorway at the far end  

of the hall, struck the floor with his ceremonial staff, and, in a thin, warbling voice, announced, "His Most  

Exalted Royal Highness, Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the  

Night Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone."

A strange title, that: He Who Walks Alone, Eragon observed to Saphira.

But well deserved, I would guess, she replied, and he could sense her amusement, even though he  

could not see her where she lay coiled in the castle keep.

The page stepped aside, and through the doorway strode Grimrr Halfpaw in the shape of a human,  

trailed by four other werecats, who padded close behind him on large, shaggy paws. The four resembled  

Solembum, the one other werecat Eragon had seen in the guise of an animal: heavy-shouldered and  

long-limbed, with short, dark ruffs upon their necks and withers; tasseled ears; and black-tipped tails,  

which they waved gracefully from side to side.

Grimrr Halfpaw, however, looked unlike any person or creature Eragon had ever seen. At roughly four  

feet tall, he was the same height as a dwarf, but no one could have mistaken him for a dwarf, or even for  

a human. He had a small pointed chin, wide cheekbones, and, underneath upswept brows, slanted green  

eyes fringed with winglike eyelashes. His ragged black hair hung low over his forehead, while on the sides  

and back it fell to his shoulders, where it lay smooth and lustrous, much like the manes of his companions.  

His age was impossible for Eragon to guess.

The only clothes Grimrr wore were a rough leather vest and a rabbit-skin loincloth. The skulls of a dozen  

or so animals-birds, mice, and other small game-were tied to the front of the vest, and they rattled  

against one another as he moved. A sheathed dagger protruded at an angle from under the belt of his  

loincloth. Numerous scars, thin and white, marked his nut-brown skin, like scratches on a well-used  

table. And, as his name indicated, he was missing two fingers on his left hand; they looked to have been  

bitten off.

Despite the delicacy of his features, there was no doubt that Grimrr was male, given the hard, sinewy  

muscles of his arms and chest, the narrowness of his hips, and the coiled power of his stride as he  

sauntered down the length of the hall toward Nasuada.

None of the werecats seemed to notice the people lined up on either side of their path watching them  

until Grimrr came level with the herbalist Angela, who stood next to Roran, knitting a striped tube sock

Page 29

with six needles.

with six needles.

Angela looked up from the sock, her expression languid and insolent."Cheep cheep," she said.

For a moment, Eragon thought the werecat was going to attack her. A dark flush mottled Grimrr's neck  

and face, his nostrils flared, and he snarled silently at her. The other werecats settled into low crouches,  

ready to pounce, their ears pressed flat against their heads.

Throughout the hall, Eragon heard the slither of blades being partially drawn from their scabbards.

Grimrr hissed once more, then turned away from the herbalist and continued walking. As the last  

werecat in line passed Angela, he lifted a paw and took a surreptitious swipe at the strand of yarn that  

drooped from Angela's needles, just like a playful house cat might.

Saphira's bewilderment was equal to Eragon's own.Cheep cheep? she asked.

He shrugged, forgetting that she could not see him.Who knows why Angela does or says anything?

At last Grimrr arrived before Nasuada. He inclined his head ever so slightly, displaying with his bearing  

the supreme confidence, even arrogance, that was the sole province of cats, dragons, and certain  

highborn women.

"Lady Nasuada," he said. His voice was surprisingly deep, more akin to the low, coughing roar of a  

wildcat than the high-pitched tones of the boy he resembled.

Nasuada inclined her head in turn. "King Halfpaw. You are most welcome to the Varden, you and all  

your race. I must apologize for the absence of our ally, King Orrin of Surda; he could not be here to  

greet you, as he wished, for he and his horsemen are even now busy defending our westward flank from  

a contingent of Galbatorix's troops."

"Of course, Lady Nasuada," said Grimrr. His sharp teeth flashed as he spoke. "You must never turn  

your back on your enemies."

"Even so ... And to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit, Your Highness? Werecats  

have always been noted for their secrecy and their solitude, and for remaining apart from the conflicts of  

the age, especially since the fall of the Riders. One might even say that your kind has become more myth  

than fact over the past century. Why, then, do you now choose to reveal yourselves?"

Grimrr lifted his right arm and pointed at Eragon with a crooked finger topped by a clawlike nail.

"Because of him," growled the werecat. "One does not attack another hunter until he has shown his  

weakness, and Galbatorix has shown his: he will not kill Eragon Shadeslayer or Saphira Bjartskular.  

Long have we waited for this opportunity, and seize it we will. Galbatorix will learn to fear and hate us,  

and at the last, he will realize the extent of his mistake and know that we were the ones responsible for  

his undoing. And how sweet that revenge will taste, as sweet as the marrow of a tender young boar.

"Time has come, human, for every race, even werecats, to stand together and prove to Galbatorix that

Page 30

he has not broken our will to fight. We would join your army, Lady Nasuada, as free allies, and help you  

achieve this."

he has not broken our will to fight. We would join your army, Lady Nasuada, as free allies, and help you  

achieve this."

After a brief pause, Nasuada said, "Your words fall most pleasantly upon my ears, Your Highness. But  

before I can accept your offer, there are answers I must have of you, if you are willing."

With an air of unshakable indifference, Grimrr waved a hand. "I am."

"Your race has beenso secretive andso elusive, I must confess, I had not heard tell of Your Highness  

until this very day. As a point of fact, I did not even know that your racehad a ruler."

"I am not a king like your kings," said Grimrr. "Werecats prefer to walk alone, but even we must choose  

a leader when to war we go."

"I see. Do you speak for your whole race, then, or only for those who travel with you?"

Grimrr's chest swelled, and his expression became, if possible, even more self-satisfied. "I speak for all  

of my kind, Lady Nasuada," he purred. "Every able-bodied werecat in Alagaësia, save those who are  

nursing, has come here to fight. There are few of us, but none can equal our ferocity in battle. And I can  

also command the one-shapes, although I cannot speak for them, for they are as dumb as other animals.  

Still, they will do what we ask of them."

"One-shapes?" Nasuada inquired.

"Those you know as cats. Those who cannot change their skins, as we do."

"And you command their loyalty?"

"Aye. They admire us ... as is only natural."

If what he says is true, Eragon commented to Saphira,the werecats could prove to be incredibly  

valuable .

Then Nasuada said, "And what is it you desire of us in exchange for your assistance, King Halfpaw?"  

She glanced at Eragon and smiled, then added, "We can offer you as much cream as you want, but  

beyond that, our resources are limited. If your warriors expect to be paid for their troubles, I fear they  

will be sorely disappointed."

"Cream is for kittens, and gold holds no interest for us," said Grimrr. As he spoke, he lifted his right  

hand and inspected his nails with a heavy-lidded gaze. "Our terms are thus: Each of us will be given a  

dagger to fight with, if we do not already have one. Each of us shall have two suits of armor made to fit,  

one for when on two legs we stand, and one for when on four. We need no other equipment than  

that-no tents, no blankets, no plates, no spoons. Each of us will be promised a single duck, grouse,  

chicken, or similar bird per day, and every second day, a bowl of freshly chopped liver. Even if we do  

not choose to eat it, the food will be set aside for us. Also, should you win this war, then whoever  

becomes your next king or queen-and all who claim that title thereafter-will keep a padded cushion  

next to their throne, in a place of honor, for one of us to sit on, if we so wish."

Page 31

"You bargain like a dwarven lawgiver," said Nasuada in a dry tone. She leaned over to Jörmundur, and  

Eragon heard her whisper, "Do we have enough liver to feed them all?"

"You bargain like a dwarven lawgiver," said Nasuada in a dry tone. She leaned over to Jörmundur, and  

Eragon heard her whisper, "Do we have enough liver to feed them all?"

Nasuada straightened in her seat. "Two sets of armor is one too many, King Halfpaw. Your warriors  

will have to decide whether they want to fight as cats or as humans and then abide by the decision. I  

cannot afford to outfit them for both."

If Grimrr had had a tail, Eragon was sure it would have twitched back and forth. As it was, the werecat  

merely shifted his position. "Very well, Lady Nasuada."

"There is one more thing. Galbatorix has spies and killers hidden everywhere. Therefore, as a condition  

of joining the Varden, you must consent to allow one of our spellcasters to examine your memories, so  

we may assure ourselves that Galbatorix has no claim on you."

Grimrr sniffed. "You would be foolish not to. If anyone is brave enough to read our thoughts, let them.  

But not her"-and he twisted to point at Angela. "Never her."

Nasuada hesitated, and Eragon could see that she wanted to ask why but restrained herself. "So be it. I  

will send for magicians at once, that we may settle this matter without delay. Depending on what they  

find-and it will be nothing untoward, I'm sure-I am honored to form an alliance between you and the  

Varden, King Halfpaw."

At her words, all of the humans in the hall broke out cheering and began to clap, including Angela. Even  

the elves appeared pleased.

The werecats, however, did not react, except to tilt their ears backward in annoyance at the noise.

AFTERMATH

ragon groaned and leaned back against Saphira. Bracing his hands on his knees, he slid down over her  

bumpy scales until he was sitting on the ground, then stretched out his legs in front of him.

"I'm hungry!" he exclaimed.

He and Saphira were in the courtyard of the castle, away from the men who were laboring to clear  

it-piling stones and bodies alike into carts-and from the people streaming in and out of the damaged  

building, many of whom had been present at Nasuada's audience with King Halfpaw and were now  

leaving to attend to other duties. Blödhgarm and four elves stood nearby, watching for danger.

"Oi!" someone shouted.

Eragon looked up to see Roran walking toward him from the keep. Angela trailed a few steps behind,  

yarn flapping in the air as she half ran to keep up with his longer stride.

"Where are you off to now?" Eragon asked as Roran stopped before him.

Page 32

"To help secure the city and organize the prisoners."

"To help secure the city and organize the prisoners."

"You too."

Eragon shifted his attention to Angela, who was once again knitting, her fingers moving so quickly, he  

could not follow what she was doing."Cheep cheep?" he asked.

An impish expression overtook her face, and she shook her head, her voluminous curls bouncing. "A  

story for another time."

Eragon accepted her evasion without complaint; he had not expected her to explain herself. She rarely  

did.

"And you," said Roran, "where are you going?"

We're going to get some food, said Saphira, and nudged Eragon with her snout, her breath warm on  

him as she exhaled.

Roran nodded. "That sounds best. I'll see you at camp this evening, then." As he turned to leave, he  

added, "Give my love to Katrina."

Angela tucked her knitting into a quilted bag that hung at her waist. "I guess I'll be off as well. I have a  

potion brewing in my tent that I must attend to, and there's a certain werecat I want to track down."

"Grimrr?"

"No, no-an old friend of mine: Solembum's mother. If she's still alive, that is. I hope she is." She raised  

her hand to her brow, thumb and forefinger touching in a circle, and, in an overly cheerful voice, said, "Be  

seeing you!" And with that, she sailed off.

On my back, said Saphira, and rose to her feet, leaving Eragon without support.

He climbed into the saddle at the base of her neck, and Saphira unfolded her massive wings with the  

soft, dry sound of skin sliding over skin. The motion created a gust of near-silent wind that spread out  

like ripples in a pond. Throughout the courtyard, people paused to look at her.

As Saphira lifted her wings overhead, Eragon could see the web of purplish veins that pulsed therein,  

each one becoming a hollow worm track as the flow of blood subsided between the beats of her mighty  

heart.

Then with a surge and a jolt, the world tilted crazily around Eragon as Saphira jumped from the  

courtyard to the top of the castle wall, where she balanced for a moment on the merlons, the stones  

cracking between the points of her claws. He grabbed the neck spike in front of him to steady himself.

The world tilted again as Saphira launched herself off the wall. An acrid taste and smell assaulted  

Eragon, and his eyes smarted as Saphira passed through the thick layer of smoke that hung over  

Belatona like a blanket of hurt, anger, and sorrow.

Page 33

Saphira flapped twice, hard, and then they emerged from the smoke into the sunshine and soared over  

the fire-dotted streets of the city. Stilling her wings, Saphira glided in circles, allowing the warm air from  

below to lift her ever higher.

Saphira flapped twice, hard, and then they emerged from the smoke into the sunshine and soared over  

the fire-dotted streets of the city. Stilling her wings, Saphira glided in circles, allowing the warm air from  

below to lift her ever higher.

As always, Eragon felt privileged to be able to look upon the world from so high above, for he was  

aware of how few people had ever had the chance to fly on a dragon.

With a slight shift of her wings, Saphira began to glide down toward the rows of gray tents that  

composed the Varden's camp.

A strong wind sprang up from the west, heralding the imminent arrival of the storm. Eragon hunched  

over and wrapped his hands even more securely around the spike on her neck. He saw glossy ripples  

race across the fields below as the stalks bent under the force of the rising gale. The shifting grass  

reminded him of the fur of a great green beast.

A horse screamed as Saphira swept over the rows of tents to the clearing that was reserved for her.  

Eragon half stood in the saddle as Saphira flared her wings and slowed to a near standstill over the torn  

earth. The impact as she struck knocked Eragon forward.

Sorry, she said.I tried to land as softly as I could .

I know.

Even as he dismounted, Eragon saw Katrina hurrying toward him. Her long auburn hair swirled about  

her face as she walked across the clearing, and the press of the wind exposed the bulge of her growing  

belly through the layers of her dress.

"What news?" she called, worry etched into every line of her face.

"You heard about the werecats ...?"

She nodded.

"There's no real news other than that. Roran's fine; he said to give you his love."

Her expression softened, but her worry did not entirely disappear. "He's all right, then?" She motioned  

toward the ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand, one of the two rings Eragon had enchanted  

for her and Roran so they might know if one or the other was in danger. "I thought I felt something, about  

an hour ago, and I was afraid that ..."

Eragon shook his head. "Roran can tell you about it. He got a few nicks and bruises, but other than that,  

he's fine. Scared me half to death, though."

Page 34

Katrina's look of concern intensified. Then, with visible struggle, she smiled. "At least you're safe. Both  

of you."

Katrina's look of concern intensified. Then, with visible struggle, she smiled. "At least you're safe. Both  

of you."

As Eragon bit into a slab of roast pork belly, Saphira said,Is it good? Is it scrumptious?

"Mmm," said Eragon, rivulets of juice running down his chin.

MEMORIES OF THEDEAD

albatorix is mad and therefore unpredictable, but he also has gaps in his reasoning that an  

ordinary person would not. If you can find those, Eragon, then perhaps you and Saphira can  

defeat him."

Brom lowered his pipe, his face grave. "I hope you do. My greatest desire, Eragon, is that you  

and Saphira will live long and fruitful lives, free from fear of Galbatorix and the Empire. I wish  

that I could protect you from all of the dangers that threaten you, but alas, that is not within my  

ability. All I can do is give you my advice and teach you what I cannowwhile I am still here.... My  

son. Whatever happens to you, know that I love you, and so did your mother. May the stars watch  

over you, Eragon Bromsson."

Eragon opened his eyes as the memory faded. Above him, the ceiling of the tent sagged inward, as loose  

as an empty waterskin, after the battering it had received during the now-departed storm. A drop of  

water fell from the belly of a fold, struck his right thigh, and soaked through his leggings, chilling the skin  

beneath. He knew he would have to go tighten up the tent's support ropes, but he was reluctant to move  

from the cot.

And Brom never said anything to you about Murtagh? He never told you that Murtagh and I  

were half brothers?

Saphira, who was curled up outside the tent, said,Asking again won't change my answer .

Why wouldn't he, though? Why didn't he? He must have known about Murtagh. He couldn'tnot  

have .

Saphira's response was slow to come.Brom's reasons were ever hisown, but if I had to guess, I  

imagine he thought it more important to tell you how he cared for you, and to give you what  

advice he could, than to spend his time talking about Murtagh .

He could have warned me, though! Just a few words would have sufficed.

I cannot say for certain what drove him, Eragon. You have to accept that there are some  

questions you will never be able to answer about Brom. Trust in his love for you, and do not allow  

such concerns to disturb you.

Page 35

Eragon stared down his chest at his thumbs. He placed them side by side, to better compare them. His  

left thumb had more wrinkles on its second joint than did his right, while his right had a small, ragged scar  

that he could not remember getting, although it must have happened since the Agaetí Blödhren, the  

Blood-oath Celebration.

Eragon stared down his chest at his thumbs. He placed them side by side, to better compare them. His  

left thumb had more wrinkles on its second joint than did his right, while his right had a small, ragged scar  

that he could not remember getting, although it must have happened since the Agaetí Blödhren, the  

Blood-oath Celebration.

Saphira acknowledged his thanks with a warm glow of affection.

Though Eragon had eaten and then rested for perhaps an hour, his weariness had not entirely abated.  

Nor had he expected it to. He knew from experience that it could take weeks to fully recover from the  

debilitating effects of a long, drawn-out battle. As the Varden approached Urû'baen, he and everyone  

else in Nasuada's army would have less and less time to recover before each new confrontation. The war  

would wear them down until they were bloody, battered, and barely able to fight, at which point they  

would still have to face Galbatorix, who would have been waiting for them in ease and comfort.

He tried not to think about it too much.

Another drop of water struck his leg, cold and hard. Irritated, he swung his legs off the edge of the cot  

and sat upright, then went over to the bare patch of dirt in one corner and knelt next to it.

"Deloi sharjalví!" he said, as well as several other phrases in the ancient language that were necessary to  

disarm the traps he had set the previous day.

The dirt began to seethe like water coming to a boil, and rising out of the churning fountain of rocks,  

insects, and worms, there emerged an ironbound chest a foot and a half in length. Reaching out, Eragon  

took hold of the chest and released his spell. The ground grew calm once more.

He set the chest on the now-solid dirt. "Ládrin," he whispered, and waved his hand past the lock with  

no keyhole that secured the hasp. It popped open with aclick .

A faint golden glow filled the tent as he lifted the lid of the chest.

Nestled securely within the velvet-lined interior lay Glaedr's Eldunarí, the dragon's heart of hearts. The  

large, jewel-like stone glittered darkly, like a dying ember. Eragon cupped the Eldunarí between his  

hands, the irregular, sharp-edged facets warm against his palms, and stared into its pulsing depths. A  

galaxy of tiny stars swirled within the center of the stone, although their movement had slowed and there  

seemed to be far fewer than when Eragon had first beheld the stone in Ellesméra, when Glaedr had  

discharged it from his body and into Eragon and Saphira's care.

As always, the sight fascinated Eragon; he could have sat watching the ever-changing pattern for days.

We should try again, said Saphira, and he agreed.

Together they reached out with their minds toward the distant lights, toward the sea of stars that  

represented Glaedr's consciousness. Through cold and darkness they sailed, then heat and despair and  

indifference so vast and so great, it sapped their will to do anything other than to stop and weep.

Page 36

Glaedr ... Elda, they cried over and over, but there was no answer, no shifting of the indifference.

Glaedr ... Elda, they cried over and over, but there was no answer, no shifting of the indifference.

As he returned to himself, Eragon became aware of someone knocking on the front pole of his tent, and  

then he heard Arya say, "Eragon? May I enter?"

He sniffed and blinked to clear his eyes. "Of course."

The dim gray light from the cloudy sky fell upon him as Arya pushed aside the entrance flap. He felt a  

sudden pang as his eyes met hers-green, slanted, and unreadable-and an ache of longing filled him.

"Has there been any change?" she asked, and came to kneel by him. Instead of armor, she was wearing  

the same black leather shirt, trousers, and thin-soled boots as when he had rescued her in Gil'ead. Her  

hair was damp from washing and hung down her back in long, heavy ropes. The scent of crushed pine  

needles attended her, as it so often did, and it occurred to Eragon to wonder whether she used a spell to  

create the aroma or if that was how she smelled naturally. He would have liked to ask her, but he did not  

dare.

In answer to her question, he shook his head.

"May I?" She indicated Glaedr's heart of hearts.

He moved out of the way. "Please."

Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí and then closed her eyes. While she sat, he took the  

opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been offensive otherwise. In  

every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he knew that another might say her nose  

was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too pointed, or her arms too muscled.

With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it had burned  

her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly. "He is the most unhappy  

creature I have ever met.... I would we could help him. I do not think he will be able to find his way out  

of the darkness on his own."

"Do you think ..." Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued: "Do you  

think he will go mad?"

"He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity."

Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.

When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, "Where is the Dauthdaert?"

"Hidden within my tent even as you have hidden Glaedr's Eldunarí. I can bring it here, if you want, or I  

can continue to safeguard it until you need it."

"Keep it. I can't carry it around with me, or Galbatorix may learn of its existence. Besides, it would be  

foolish to store so many treasures in one place."

Page 37

She nodded.

She nodded.

"Someone's coming," he announced, and closed the lid of the chest.

Loud, wet footsteps sounded in the mud outside. Then Albriech, for it was Albriech, shouted, "Eragon!  

Eragon!"

"What!"

"Mother's birth pains have just begun! Father sent me to tell you and to ask if you will wait with him, in  

case anything goes wrong and your skill with magic is needed. Please, if you can-"

Whatever else he said was lost to Eragon as he rushed to lock and bury the chest. Then he cast his  

cloak over his shoulders and was fumbling with the clasp when Arya touched him on the arm and said,  

"May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people will let me, I can make the  

birth easier for her."

Eragon did not even pause to consider his decision. He motioned toward the entrance of the tent. "After  

you."

WHATIS AMAN?

he mud clung to Roran's boots each time he lifted his feet, slowing his progress and making his  

already-tired legs burn from the effort. It felt as if the very ground were trying to pull off his shoes. Thick  

as it was, the mud was also slippery. It gave way under his heels at the worst moments, just when his  

position was the most precarious. And it was deep, too. The constant passage of men, animals, and  

wagons had turned the top six inches of earth into a nigh on impassable morass. A few patches of  

crushed grass remained along the edges of the track-which ran straight through the Varden's  

camp-but Roran suspected they would soon vanish as men sought to avoid the center of the lane.

Roran made no attempt to evade the muck; he no longer cared if his clothes stayed clean. Besides, he  

was so exhausted, it was easier to keep plodding in the same direction than to worry about picking a  

path from one island of grass to the next.

As he stumbled forward, Roran thought of Belatona. Since Nasuada's audience with the werecats, he  

had been setting up a command post in the northwest quarter of the city and doing his best to establish  

control over the quadrant by assigning men to put out fires, build barricades in the streets, search houses

Page 38

for soldiers, and confiscate weapons. It was an immense task, and he despaired of accomplishing what  

was needed, fearing that the city might erupt into open battle again.I hope those idiots can make it  

through the night without getting killed .

for soldiers, and confiscate weapons. It was an immense task, and he despaired of accomplishing what  

was needed, fearing that the city might erupt into open battle again.I hope those idiots can make it  

through the night without getting killed .

Blasted coward.

Someone had shot at him with a crossbow from the roof of a building. Only the sheerest of luck had  

saved him; one of his men, Mortenson, had stepped in front of him at the exact moment the attacker had  

fired. The bolt had punched through Mortenson from back to belly and had still retained enough force to  

give Roran a nasty bruise. Mortenson had died on the spot, and whoever had shot the crossbow had  

escaped.

Five minutes later, an explosion of some sort, possibly magical, had killed two more of his men when  

they entered a stable to investigate a noise.

From what Roran understood, such attacks were common throughout the city. No doubt, Galbatorix's  

agents were behind many of them, but the inhabitants of Belatona were also responsible-men and  

women who could not bear to stand by idly while an invading army seized control of their home, no  

matter how honorable the Varden's intentions might be. Roran could sympathize with the people who felt  

they had to defend their families, but at the same time, he cursed them for being so thick-skulled that they  

could not recognize the Varden were trying to help them, not hurt them.

He scratched at his beard while he waited for a dwarf to pull a heavily laden pony out of his way, then  

continued slogging forward.

As he drew near their tent, he saw Katrina standing over a tub of hot, soapy water, scrubbing a  

bloodstained bandage against a washboard. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, her hair tied in a  

messy bun, and her cheeks flushed from her work, but she had never looked so beautiful to him. She was  

his comfort-his comfort and his refuge-and just seeing her helped ease the sense of numb dislocation  

that gripped him.

She noticed him and immediately abandoned her washing and ran toward him, drying her pink hands on  

the front of her dress. Roran braced himself as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his  

chest. His side flared with pain, and he uttered a short grunt.

Katrina loosened her hold and leaned away, frowning. "Oh! Did I hurt you?"

"No ... no. I'm just sore."

She did not question him but hugged him again, more gently, and looked up at him, her eyes glistening  

with tears. Holding her by the waist, he bent and kissed her, inexpressibly grateful for her presence.

Katrina slipped his left arm over her shoulders, and he allowed her to support part of his weight as they  

returned to their tent. With a sigh, Roran sat on the stump they used for a chair, which Katrina had  

placed next to the small fire she had built to heat the tub of water and over which a pot of stew was now  

simmering.

Katrina filled a bowl with stew and handed it to him. Then, from within the tent, she brought him a mug  

of ale and a plate with a half loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. "Is there anything else you need?" she

Page 39

asked, her voice unusually hoarse.

asked, her voice unusually hoarse.

Roran stared at the food for a long time before he took a bite; he was still so tense, he doubted he could  

stomach it. After a few mouthfuls of bread, however, his appetite returned, and he began to consume the  

stew with eagerness.

When he was done, he placed the dishes on the ground and then sat warming his hands over the fire  

while he nursed the last few sips of beer.

"We heard the crash when the gates fell," said Katrina, wringing a bandage dry. "They didn't hold for  

very long."

"No.... It helps to have a dragon on your side."

Roran gazed at her belly as she draped the bandage over the makeshift clothesline that ran from the  

peak of their tent across to a neighboring one. Whenever he thought of the child she was carrying, the  

child that the two of them had created, he felt an enormous sense of pride, but it was tinged with anxiety,  

for he did not know how he could hope to provide a safe home for their baby. Also, if the war was not  

over by the time Katrina gave birth, she intended to leave him and go to Surda, where she might raise  

their child in relative safety.

I can't lose her, not again.

Katrina immersed another bandage in the tub. "And the battle in the city?" she asked, churning the  

water. "How went it?"

"We had to fight for every foot. Even Eragon had a hard time of it."

"The wounded spoke of ballistae mounted on wheels."

"Aye." Roran wet his tongue with ale, then quickly described how the Varden had moved through  

Belatona and the setbacks they had encountered along the way. "We lost too many men today, but it  

could have been worse. Much worse. Jörmundur and Captain Martland planned the attack well."

"Their plan wouldn't have worked, though, if not for you and Eragon. You acquitted yourself most  

bravely."

Roran loosed a single bark of laughter: "Ha! And do you know why that is? I'll tell you. Not one man in  

ten is actually willing to attack the enemy. Eragon doesn't see it; he's always at the forefront of the battle,  

driving the soldiers before him, but I see it. Most of the men hang back and don't fight unless they are  

cornered. Or they wave their arms about and make a lot of noise but don't actually do anything."

Katrina looked appalled. "How can that be? Are they cowards?"

"I don't know. I think ... I think that, perhaps, they just can't bring themselves to look a man in the face  

and kill him, although it seems easy enough for them to cut down soldiers whose backs are turned. So  

they wait for others to do what they cannot. They wait for people like me."

Page 40

"Do you think Galbatorix's men are equally reluctant?"  

Roran shrugged. "They might be. But then, they have no choice but to obey Galbatorix. If he orders  

them to fight, they fight."  

"Nasuada could do the same. She could have her magicians cast spells to ensure that no one shirks their  

duty."  

"What difference would there be between her and Galbatorix, then? In any case, the Varden wouldn't  

stand for it."  

Katrina left her washing to come and kiss him on the forehead. "I'm glad you can do what you do," she

"Do you think Galbatorix's men are equally reluctant?"  

Roran shrugged. "They might be. But then, they have no choice but to obey Galbatorix. If he orders  

them to fight, they fight."  

"Nasuada could do the same. She could have her magicians cast spells to ensure that no one shirks their  

duty."  

"What difference would there be between her and Galbatorix, then? In any case, the Varden wouldn't  

stand for it."  

Katrina left her washing to come and kiss him on the forehead. "I'm glad you can do what you do," she

misadventure in the castle, but it was plain that she would not rest until she knew the truth. Attempting to  

convince her otherwise would only lead her to imagine calamities far worse than what had actually  

occurred. Besides, it would be pointless for him to hold back when news of the event would soon be  

common throughout the Varden.

So he told her. He gave her a brief account and tried to make the collapse of the wall seem more like a  

minor inconvenience rather than something that had almost killed him. Still, he found it difficult to describe  

the experience, and he spoke haltingly, searching for the right words. When he finished, he fell silent,  

troubled by the remembrance.

"At least you weren't hurt," said Katrina.  

He picked at a crack in the lip of the mug. "No."  

The sound of sloshing water ceased, and he could feel her eyes heavy upon him.  

"You've faced far greater danger before."  

"Yes ... I suppose."  

Her voice softened. "What's wrong, then?" When he did not answer, she said, "There's nothing so

terrible you can't tell me, Roran. You know that."

The edge of his right thumbnail tore as he picked at the mug again. He rubbed the sharp flap against his  

forefinger several times. "I thought I was going to die when the wall fell."  

"Anyone might have."  

"Yes, but the thing is, I didn'tmind ." Anguished, he looked at her. "Don't you understand?I gave up .

When I realized I couldn't escape, I accepted it as meekly as a lamb led to slaughter, and I-" Unable to  

continue, he dropped the mug and hid his face in his hands. The swelling in his throat made it hard to

Page 41

breathe. Then he felt Katrina's fingers light upon his shoulders. "I gave up," he growled, furious and  

disgusted with himself. "I just stopped fighting.... For you ... For our child." He choked on the words.

breathe. Then he felt Katrina's fingers light upon his shoulders. "I gave up," he growled, furious and  

disgusted with himself. "I just stopped fighting.... For you ... For our child." He choked on the words.

"I've never given up before. Not once.... Not even when the Ra'zac took you."

"I know you haven't."

"This fighting has to end. It can't go on like this.... I can't ... I-" He raised his head and was horrified  

to see that she too was on the verge of tears. Standing, he wrapped his arms around her and held her  

close. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.... It won't happen again. Never  

again. I promise."

"I don't care aboutthat ," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Her reply stung him. "I know I was weak, but my word still ought to be worth something to you."

"That's not what I meant!" she exclaimed, and drew back to look at him accusingly. "You're a fool

sometimes, Roran."

He smiled slightly. "I know."

She clasped her hands behind his neck. "I wouldn't think any less of you, regardless of what you felt  

when the wall came down. All that matters is that you're still alive.... There wasn't anything you could do  

when the wall fell, was there?"

He shook his head.

"Then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you could have stopped it, or if you could have escaped  

but you didn't, then you would have lost my respect. But you did everything you could, and when you  

could do no more, you made peace with your fate, and you didn't rail needlessly against it. That is  

wisdom, not weakness."

He bowed and kissed her on the brow. "Thank you."

"And as far as I am concerned, you are the bravest, strongest, kindest man in all of Alagaësia."

This time he kissed her on the mouth. Afterward, she laughed, a short, quick release of pent-up tension,

and they stood swaying together, as if dancing to a melody only they could hear.

Then Katrina gave him a playful push and went to finish the washing, and he settled back on the stump,  

content for the first time since the battle, despite his numerous aches and pains.

Roran watched the men, horses, and the occasional dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent, noting their  

wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general mood of the  

Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals needed a good sleep and a  

decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals-especially the Urgals-needed to be scoured from  

head to foot with a hog's-hair brush and buckets of soapy water.

He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually faded and

Page 42

she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little

she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little

At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy water several  

feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran pushed himself off the  

stump and made his way to her side.

"Here, let me," he said.

"It wouldn't be fitting," she muttered.

"Nonsense. Go sit down, and I'll finish.... Go on."

She shook her head. "No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn't man's work."

He snorted with derision. "By whose decree? A man's work, or a woman's, is whatever needs to be

done. Now go sit down; you'll feel better once you're off your feet."

"Roran, I'm fine."

"Don't be silly." He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.

"It's not right," she protested. "What would people think?" She gestured at the men hurrying along the

muddy lane next to their tent.

"They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I'm any less of a man for  

helping you, then they're fools."

"But-"

"But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here."

"But-"

"I'm not going to argue. If you don't go sit, I'm going to carry you over there and tie you to that stump."

A bemused expression replaced her scowl. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Now go!" As she reluctantly ceded her position at the tub, he made a noise of exasperation.

"Stubborn, aren't you?"

"Speak for yourself. You could teach a mule a thing or two."

"Not me. I'm not stubborn." Undoing his belt, he removed his mail shirt and hung it on the front pole of  

the tent, then peeled off his gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The air was cool against his skin,  

and the bandages were colder still-they had grown chill while lying exposed on the washboard-but he  

did not mind, for the water was warm, and soon the cloth was as well. Frothy mounds of iridescent  

bubbles built up around his wrists as he pushed and pulled the material across the full length of the  

knobby board.

He glanced over and was pleased to see that Katrina was relaxing on the stump, at least as much as

Page 43

anyone could relax on such a rough seat.

anyone could relax on such a rough seat.

"I'd like that."

A companionable silence developed between them as Roran proceeded to wash the rest of the laundry.  

The task lulled him into a pleasant mood; he enjoyed doing something with his hands other than swinging  

his hammer, and being close to Katrina gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

He was in the middle of wringing out the last item, and his freshly poured tea was waiting for him next to  

Katrina, when someone shouted their names from across the busy way. It took Roran a moment to  

realize it was Baldor running toward them through the mud, weaving between men and horses. He wore  

a pitted leather apron and heavy, elbow-length gloves that were smeared with soot and were so worn  

that the fingers were as hard, smooth, and shiny as polished tortoise shells. A scrap of torn leather held  

back his dark, shaggy hair, and a frown creased his forehead. Baldor was smaller than his father, Horst,  

and his older brother, Albriech, but by any other comparison, he was large and well muscled, the result  

of having spent his childhood helping Horst in his forge. None of the three had fought that day-skilled  

smiths were normally too valuable to risk in battle-although Roran wished Nasuada had let them, for  

they were able warriors and Roran knew he could count on them even in the most dire circumstances.

Roran put down the washing and dried his hands, wondering what could be amiss. Rising from the  

stump, Katrina joined him by the tub.

When Baldor reached them, they had to wait several seconds for him to regain his breath. Then, in a  

rush, he said, "Come quickly. Mother just went into labor, and-"

"Where is she?" asked Katrina in a sharp tone.

"At our tent."

She nodded. "We'll be there as fast as we can."

With a grateful expression, Baldor turned and sprinted away.

As Katrina ducked inside their tent, Roran poured the contents of the tub over the fire, extinguishing it.  

The burning wood hissed and cracked under the deluge, and a cloud of steam jetted upward in place of  

smoke, filling the air with an unpleasant smell.

Dread and excitement quickened Roran's movements.I hope she doesn't die , he thought, remembering  

the talk he had heard among the women concerning her age and overlong pregnancy. Elain had always  

been kind to him and to Eragon, and he was fond of her.

"Are you ready?" asked Katrina as she emerged from the tent, knotting a blue scarf around her head  

and neck.

He grabbed his belt and hammer from where they hung. "Ready. Let's go."

Page 44

THEPRICE OFPOWER

THEPRICE OFPOWER

With a soft rustle, the last strip of linen slid off Nasuada's forearms as her handmaid, Farica, removed  

the wrappings. Nasuada had worn bandages such as those since the day she and the warlord Fadawar  

had tested their courage against one another in the Trial of the Long Knives.

Nasuada stood staring at a long, ragged tapestry dotted with holes while Farica attended to her. Then  

she steeled herself and slowly lowered her gaze. Since winning the Trial of the Long Knives, she had  

refused to look at her wounds; they had appeared so horrendous when fresh, she could not bear to see  

them again until they were nearly healed.

The scars were asymmetrical: six lay across the belly of her left forearm, three on her right. Each of the  

scars was three to four inches long and straight as could be, save the bottom one on the right, where her  

self-control had faltered and the knife had swerved, carving a jagged line nearly twice the length of the  

others. The skin around the scars was pink and puckered, while the scars themselves were only a little bit  

lighter than the rest of her body, for which she was grateful. She had feared that they might end up white  

and silvery, which would have made them far more noticeable. The scars rose above the surface of her  

arm about a quarter of an inch, forming hard ridges of flesh that looked exactly as if smooth steel rods  

had been inserted underneath her skin.

Nasuada regarded the marks with ambivalence. Her father had taught her about the customs of their  

people as she was growing up, but she had spent her whole life among the Varden and the dwarves. The  

only rituals of the wandering tribes that she observed, and then only irregularly, were associated with their  

religion. She had never aspired to master the Drum Dance, nor participate in the arduous Calling of  

Names, nor-and this most particularly-best anyone in the Trial of the Long Knives. And yet now here  

she was, still young and still beautiful, and already bearing these nine large scars upon her forearms. She  

could order one of the magicians of the Varden to remove them, of course, but then she would forfeit her  

victory in the Trial of the Long Knives, and the wandering tribes would renounce her as their liegelord.

While she regretted that her arms were no longer smooth and round and would no longer attract the  

admiring glances of men, she was also proud of the scars. They were a testament to her courage and a  

visible sign of her devotion to the Varden. Anyone who looked at her would know the quality of her  

character, and she decided that meant more to her than appearance.

"What do you think?" she asked, and held out her arms toward King Orrin, who stood framed in the  

open window of the study, looking down at the city.

Orrin turned and frowned, his eyes dark beneath his furrowed brow. He had traded his armor of earlier  

for a thick red tunic and a robe trimmed with white ermine. "I find it unpleasant to look at," he said, and  

returned his attention to the city. "Cover yourself; it is inappropriate for polite society."

Nasuada studied her arms for a moment longer. "No, I don't think I will." She tugged on the lace cuffs  

of her half sleeves to straighten them, then dismissed Farica. She crossed the sumptuous dwarf-woven  

rug in the center of the room to join Orrin in inspecting the battle-torn city, where she was pleased to see  

that all but two of the fires along the western wall had been extinguished. Then she shifted her gaze to the

Page 45

king.

king.

Could I be happy if I married him?she wondered. Orrin was not unpleasant to look at. His nose was  

high and thin, but his jaw was strong and his mouth was finely carved and expressive. Years of martial  

training had given him a pleasing build. That he was intelligent was without doubt, and for the most part  

his personality was agreeable. However, if he had not been the king of Surda, and if he had not posed  

such a great threat to her position and to the Varden's independence, she knew that she would never  

have considered a match with him.Would he make a good father?

Orrin put his hands on the narrow stone sill and leaned against it. Without looking at her, he said, "You  

have to break your pact with the Urgals."

His statement took her aback. "And why is that?"

"Because they are hurting us. Men who would otherwise join us now curse us for allying ourselves with  

monsters and refuse to lay down their weapons when we arrive at their homes. Galbatorix's resistance  

seems just and reasonable to them because of our concord with the Urgals. The common man does not  

understand why we joined with them. He does not know that Galbatorix used the Urgals himself, nor that  

Galbatorix tricked them into attacking Tronjheim under the command of a Shade. These are subtleties  

that you cannot explain to a frightened farmer. All he can comprehend is that the creatures he has feared  

and hated his whole life are marching toward his home, led by a huge, snarling dragon and a Rider who  

appears more elf than human."

"We need the Urgals' support," said Nasuada. "We have too few warriors as it is."

"We do not need them as badly as all that. You already know what I say is the truth; why else did you  

prevent the Urgals from participating in the attack on Belatona? Why else have you ordered them not to  

enter the city? Keeping them away from the battlefield isn't enough, Nasuada. Word of them still spreads  

throughout the land. The only thing you can do to improve the situation is to end this ill-fated scheme  

before it causes us more harm."

"I cannot."

Orrin spun toward her, anger distorting his face. "Men aredying because you chose to accept  

Garzhvog's help. My men, your men, those in the Empire ... dead andburied . This alliance isn't worth  

their sacrifice, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom why you continue to defend it."

She could not hold his gaze; it reminded her too strongly of the guilt and recrimination that so often  

afflicted her when she was trying to fall asleep. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the smoke rising from a  

tower by the edge of the city. Speaking slowly, she said, "I defend it because I hope that preserving our  

union with the Urgals will save more lives than it will cost.... If we should defeat Galbatorix-"

Orrin uttered an exclamation of disbelief.

Page 46

"It is by no means certain," she said, "I know. But we must plan for the possibility. If we should defeat  

him, then it will fall to us to help our race recover from this conflict and build a strong new country out of  

the ashes of the Empire. And part of that process will be ensuring that, after a hundred years of strife, we  

finally have peace. I will not overthrow Galbatorix only to have the Urgals attack us when we are at our  

weakest."

"It is by no means certain," she said, "I know. But we must plan for the possibility. If we should defeat  

him, then it will fall to us to help our race recover from this conflict and build a strong new country out of  

the ashes of the Empire. And part of that process will be ensuring that, after a hundred years of strife, we  

finally have peace. I will not overthrow Galbatorix only to have the Urgals attack us when we are at our  

weakest."

"Well, what else can we do?" she said, annoyed. "We have to try to tame them. The closer we bind  

them to our cause, the less likely they will be to turn on us."

"I'll tell you what to do," he growled. "Banish them. Break your pact with Nar Garzhvog and send him  

and his rams away. If we win this war, then we can negotiate a new treaty with them, and we will be in a  

position to dictate whatever terms we want. Or better yet, send Eragon and Saphira into the Spine with a  

battalion of men to wipe them out once and for all, as the Riders should have done centuries ago."

Nasuada looked at him with disbelief. "If I ended our pact with the Urgals, they would likely be so  

angry, they would attack us forthwith, and we cannot fight both them and the Empire at the same time.  

To invite that upon ourselves would be the height of folly. If, in their wisdom, the elves, the dragons, and  

the Riders all decided to tolerate the existence of the Urgals-even though they could have destroyed  

them easily enough-then we ought to follow their example. They knew it would be wrong to kill all the  

Urgals, and so should you."

"Their wisdom-Bah! As if theirwisdom has done them any good! Fine, leave some of the Urgals alive,  

but kill enough of them that they won't dare leave their haunts for a hundred years or more!"

The obvious pain in his voice and in the strained lines of his face puzzled Nasuada. She examined him  

with greater intensity, trying to determine the reason for his vehemence. After a few moments, an  

explanation presented itself that, upon reflection, seemed self-evident.

"Whom did you lose?" she asked.

Orrin balled up a fist and slowly, haltingly, brought it down upon the windowsill, as if he wanted to  

pound it with all his strength but did not dare. He thumped the sill twice more, then said, "A friend I grew  

up with in Borromeo Castle. I don't think you ever met him. He was one of the lieutenants in my  

cavalry."

"How did he die?"

"As you might expect. We had just arrived at the stables by the west gate and were securing them for  

our own use when one of the grooms ran out of a stall and stabbed him right through with a pitchfork.  

When we cornered the groom, he kept screaming stuff and nonsense about the Urgals and how he would  

never surrender.... It wouldn't have done the fool any good even if he had. I struck him down with my  

own hand."

"I'm sorry," said Nasuada.

The gems in Orrin's crown glittered as he nodded in acknowledgment.

"As painful as it is, you cannot allow your grief to dictate your decisions.... It isn't easy, I know-well I

Page 47

know it!-but you must be stronger than yourself, for the good of your people."

know it!-but you must be stronger than yourself, for the good of your people."

"Yes. More is asked of us than of most people; therefore we must strive to be better than most if we are  

to prove ourselves worthy of that responsibility.... The Urgals killed my father, remember, but that did  

not prevent me from forging an alliance that could help the Varden. I won't let anything stop me from  

doing what is best for them and for our army as a whole, no matter how painful it might be." She lifted  

her arms, showing him the scars again.

"That is your answer, then? You will not break off with the Urgals?"

"No."

Orrin accepted the news with an equanimity that unsettled her. Then he gripped the sill with both hands  

and returned to his study of the city. Adorning his fingers were four large rings, one of which bore the  

royal seal of Surda carved into the face of an amethyst: an antlered stag with sprigs of mistletoe wound  

between his feet standing over a harp and opposite an image of a tall, fortified tower.

"At least," said Nasuada, "we didn't encounter any soldiers who were enchanted not to feel pain."

"The laughing dead, you mean," Orrin muttered, using the term that she knew had become widespread  

throughout the Varden. "Aye, and not Murtagh nor Thorn either, which troubles me."

For a time, neither of them spoke. Then she said, "How went your experiment last night? Was it a

success?"

"I was too tired to assay it. I went to sleep instead."

"Ah."

After a few more moments, they both, by tacit agreement, went to the desk pushed against one wall.

Mountains of sheets, tablets, and scrolls covered the desk. Nasuada surveyed the daunting landscape

and sighed. Only half an hour earlier, the desk had been empty, swept clean by her aides.

She concentrated upon the all-too-familiar topmost report, an estimate of the number of prisoners the  

Varden had taken during the siege of Belatona, with the names of persons of importance noted in red ink.  

She and Orrin had been discussing the figures when Farica had arrived to remove her bandages.

"I can't think of a way out of this tangle," she admitted.

"We could recruit guards from among the men here. Then we wouldn't have to leave quite so many of  

our own warriors behind."

She picked up the report. "Maybe, but the men we need would be difficult to find, and our spellcasters  

are already dangerously overworked...."

"Has Du Vrangr Gata discovered a way to break an oath given in the ancient language?" When she  

answered in the negative, he asked, "Have they made any headway at all?"

"None that is practical. I even asked the elves, but they have had no more luck in all their long years than

Page 48

we have these past few days."

we have these past few days."

She rubbed her temples. "I know." Before leaving the protection of the dwarves in Farthen Dûr and  

Tronjheim, she had tried to anticipate every challenge the Varden might face once they embarked on the  

offensive. The one they now confronted, however, had caught her completely by surprise.

The problem had first manifested itself in the aftermath of the Battle of the Burning Plains, when it had  

become apparent that all of the officers in Galbatorix's army, and most of the ordinary soldiers as well,  

had been forced to swear their loyalty to Galbatorix and the Empire in the ancient language. She and  

Orrin had quickly realized they could never trust those men, not so long as Galbatorix and the Empire still  

existed, and perhaps not even if they were destroyed. As a result, they could not allow the men who  

wanted to defect to join the Varden, for fear of how their oaths might compel them to behave.

Nasuada had not been overly concerned by the situation at the time. Prisoners were a reality of war, and  

she had already made provisions with King Orrin to have their captives marched back to Surda, where  

they would be put to work building roads, breaking rocks, digging canals, and doing other hard labor.

It was not until the Varden seized the city of Feinster that she grasped the full size of the problem.  

Galbatorix's agents had extracted oaths of loyalty not only from the soldiers in Feinster but also from the  

nobles, from many of the officials who served them, and from a seemingly random collection of ordinary  

people throughout the city-a fair number of whom she suspected the Varden had failed to identify.  

Those they knew of, however, had to be kept under lock and key, lest they try to subvert the Varden.  

Finding people they could trust, then, and who wanted to work with the Varden had proved far more  

difficult than Nasuada had ever expected.

Because of all the people who needed to be contained, she had had no choice but to leave twice the  

number of warriors in Feinster that she had intended. And, with so many imprisoned, the city was  

effectively crippled, forcing her to divert much-needed supplies from the main body of the Varden to  

keep the city from starving. They could not maintain the situation for long, and it would only worsen now  

that they were also in possession of Belatona.

"A pity the dwarves haven't arrived yet," said Orrin. "We could use their help."

Nasuada agreed. There were only a few hundred dwarves with the Varden at the moment; the rest had  

returned to Farthen Dûr for the burial of their fallen king, Hrothgar, and to wait for their clan chiefs to  

choose Hrothgar's successor, a fact that she had cursed countless times since. She had tried to convince  

the dwarves to appoint a regent for the duration of the war, but they were as stubborn as stone and had  

insisted upon carrying out their age-old ceremonies, though doing so meant abandoning the Varden in the  

middle of their campaign. In any event, the dwarves had finally selected their new king-Hrothgar's  

nephew, Orik-and had set out from the distant Beor Mountains to rejoin the Varden. Even at that  

moment, they were marching across the vast plains just north of Surda, somewhere between Lake  

Tüdosten and the Jiet River.

Nasuada wondered if they would be fit to fight when they arrived. As a rule, dwarves were hardier than  

humans, but they had spent most of the past two months on foot, and that could wear down the  

endurance of even the strongest creatures.They must be tired of seeing the same landscape over and  

over again , she thought.

"We have so many prisoners already. And once we take Dras-Leona ..." She shook her head.

Page 49

Appearing suddenly animated, Orrin said, "What if we bypass Dras-Leona entirely?" He shuffled  

through the slew of papers on the desk until he located a large, dwarf-drawn map of Alagaësia, which he  

draped over the scarps of administerial records. The tottering mounds underneath gave the land an  

unusual topography: peaks in the west of Du Weldenvarden; a bowl-like depression where the Beor  

Mountains lay; canyons and ravines throughout the Hadarac Desert; and rolling waves along the  

northernmost part of the Spine, born of the rows of scrolls below. "Look." With his middle finger, he  

traced a line from Belatona to the capital of the Empire, Urû'baen. "If we march straight there, we won't  

come anywhere near Dras-Leona. It would be difficult to traverse the whole stretch all at once, but we  

could do it."

Appearing suddenly animated, Orrin said, "What if we bypass Dras-Leona entirely?" He shuffled  

through the slew of papers on the desk until he located a large, dwarf-drawn map of Alagaësia, which he  

draped over the scarps of administerial records. The tottering mounds underneath gave the land an  

unusual topography: peaks in the west of Du Weldenvarden; a bowl-like depression where the Beor  

Mountains lay; canyons and ravines throughout the Hadarac Desert; and rolling waves along the  

northernmost part of the Spine, born of the rows of scrolls below. "Look." With his middle finger, he  

traced a line from Belatona to the capital of the Empire, Urû'baen. "If we march straight there, we won't  

come anywhere near Dras-Leona. It would be difficult to traverse the whole stretch all at once, but we  

could do it."

Orrin conceded the point with a slight dip of his head. "We need our men back from Aroughs, then. We  

need every warrior if we are to continue."

"I know. I intend to make sure that the siege is brought to an end before the week is out."

"Not by sending Eragon there, I hope."

"No, I have a different plan."

"Good. And in the meantime? What shall we do with these prisoners?"

"What we have done before: guards, fences, and padlocks. Maybe we can also bind the prisoners with  

spells to restrict their movement, so that we don't have to keep watch over them so closely. Other than  

that, I see no solution, except to slaughter the whole lot of them, and I would rather-" She tried to  

imagine what she would not do in order to defeat Galbatorix. "I would rather not resort to such ...  

drasticmeasures."

"Aye." Orrin stooped over the map, hunching his shoulders like a vulture as he glared at the squiggles of  

faded ink that marked the triangle of Belatona, Dras-Leona, and Urû'baen.

And so he remained until Nasuada said, "Is there anything else we must attend to? Jörmundur is waiting  

for his orders, and the Council of Elders has requested an audience with me."

"I worry."

"What about?"

Orrin swept a hand over the map. "That this venture was ill conceived from the start.... That our forces,  

and those of our allies, are dangerously scattered, and that if Galbatorix should take it in his head to join  

in the fight himself, he could destroy us as easily as Saphira could a herd of goats. Our entire strategy  

depends upon contriving a meeting between Galbatorix, Eragon, Saphira, and as many spellcasters as we  

can muster. Only a small portion of those spellcasters are currently among our ranks, and we won't be  

able to gather the rest into a single place until we arrive at Urû'baen and meet with Queen Islanzadí and  

her army. Until that happens, we remain woefully vulnerable to attack. We are risking much on the

Page 50

assumption that Galbatorix's arrogance will hold him in check until our trap has sprung shut around him."

assumption that Galbatorix's arrogance will hold him in check until our trap has sprung shut around him."

"Perhaps."

"Besides, it does no good to worry. We cannot hasten the dwarves here, nor speed our own progress  

toward Urû'baen, nor turn tail and flee. So I would not let our situation trouble you excessively. All we  

can do is strive to accept our fate with grace, whatever it might be. The alternative is to allow the thought  

of Galbatorix's possible actions to unsettle our minds, andthat I won't do. I refuse to give him such  

power over me."

RUDELY INTO THELIGHT ...

scream rang out: high, jagged, and piercing, almost inhuman in pitch and volume.

Eragon tensed as if someone had stabbed him with a needle. He had spent the better part of the day  

watching men fight and die-killing scores himself-yet he could not help but feel concern as he heard  

Elain's cries of anguish. The sounds she made were so terrible, he had begun to wonder if she would  

survive the birth.

Next to him, beside the barrel that served as his seat, Albriech and Baldor squatted on their hams,  

picking at the tattered blades of grass between their shoes. Their thick fingers shredded each scrap of  

leaf and stalk with methodical thoroughness before groping for the next. Sweat glistened on their  

foreheads, and their eyes were hard with anger and despair. Occasionally, they exchanged glances or  

looked across the lane at the tent where their mother was, but otherwise they stared at the ground and  

ignored their surroundings.

A few feet away, Roran sat on his own barrel, which lay on its side and wobbled whenever he moved.  

Clustered along the edge of the muddy lane were several dozen people from Carvahall, mostly men who  

were friends of Horst and his sons or whose wives were helping the healer Gertrude attend to Elain. And  

towering behind them was Saphira. Her neck was arched like a drawn bow, the tip of her tail twitched as  

if she were hunting, and she kept flicking her ruby-red tongue in and out of her mouth, tasting the air for  

any scents that might provide information about Elain or her unborn child.

Eragon rubbed a sore muscle in his left forearm. They had been waiting for several hours, and dusk was  

drawing near. Long black shadows stretched out from every object, reaching eastward as if striving to  

touch the horizon. The air had turned cool, and mosquitoes and lace-winged damselflies from the nearby  

Jiet River darted to and fro around them.

Another scream rent the silence.

Page 51

The men stirred with unease, then made gestures to ward off bad luck and murmured to one another in  

voices intended only for those closest to them but which Eragon could hear with perfect clarity. They  

whispered about the difficulty of Elain's pregnancy; some solemnly stated that if she did not give birth  

soon, it would be too late for both her and the child. Others said things like "Hard for a man to lose a  

wife even in the best of times, but 'specially here, 'specially now," or "It's a shame, it is...." Several  

blamed Elain's troubles on the Ra'zac or on events that had occurred during the villagers' journey to the  

Varden. And more than one muttered a distrustful remark about Arya being allowed to assist with the  

birth. "She's an elf, not a human," said the carpenter Fisk. "She ought to stick with her own kind, she  

should, and not go around meddling where she's not wanted. Who knows what it is she really wants,  

eh?"

The men stirred with unease, then made gestures to ward off bad luck and murmured to one another in  

voices intended only for those closest to them but which Eragon could hear with perfect clarity. They  

whispered about the difficulty of Elain's pregnancy; some solemnly stated that if she did not give birth  

soon, it would be too late for both her and the child. Others said things like "Hard for a man to lose a  

wife even in the best of times, but 'specially here, 'specially now," or "It's a shame, it is...." Several  

blamed Elain's troubles on the Ra'zac or on events that had occurred during the villagers' journey to the  

Varden. And more than one muttered a distrustful remark about Arya being allowed to assist with the  

birth. "She's an elf, not a human," said the carpenter Fisk. "She ought to stick with her own kind, she  

should, and not go around meddling where she's not wanted. Who knows what it is she really wants,  

eh?"

The barrel underneath Roran creaked as he leaned forward. "Do you think we should-"

"No," said Albriech.

Eragon tugged his cloak closer around him. The chill was beginning to sink into his bones. He would not  

leave, though, not until Elain's ordeal was over.

"Look," said Roran with sudden excitement.

Albriech and Baldor swiveled their heads in unison.

Across the lane, Katrina exited the tent, carrying a bundle of soiled rags. Before the entrance flap fell  

shut again, Eragon caught a glimpse of Horst and one of the women from Carvahall-he was not sure  

who-standing at the foot of the cot where Elain was lying.

Without so much as a single sideways glance at those watching, Katrina half ran and half walked toward  

the fire where Fisk's wife, Isold, and Nolla were boiling rags for reuse.

The barrel creaked twice more as Roran shifted his position. Eragon half expected him to start after  

Katrina, but he remained where he was, as did Albriech and Baldor. They, and the rest of the villagers,  

followed Katrina's movements with unblinking attentiveness.

Eragon grimaced as Elain's latest scream pierced the air, the cry no less excruciating than those  

previous.

Then the entrance to the tent was swept aside for a second time, and Arya stormed out, bare-armed and  

disheveled. Her hair fluttered about her face as she trotted over to three of Eragon's elven guards, who  

were standing in a pool of shadow behind a nearby pavilion. For a few moments, she spoke urgently with  

one of them, a thin-faced elf woman named Invidia, then hurried back the way she had come.

Eragon caught up with her before she had covered more than a few yards. "How goes it?" he asked.

"Badly."

"Why is it taking so long? Can't you help her give birth any faster?"

Page 52

Arya's expression, which was already strained, became even more severe. "I could. I could have sung  

the child out of her womb in the first half hour, but Gertrude and the other women will only let me use the  

simplest of spells."

Arya's expression, which was already strained, became even more severe. "I could. I could have sung  

the child out of her womb in the first half hour, but Gertrude and the other women will only let me use the  

simplest of spells."

"Because magic frightens them-and I frighten them."

"Then tell them you mean no harm. Tell them in the ancient language, and they'll have no choice but to

believe you."

She shook her head. "It would only make matters worse. They would think I was trying to charm them  

against their will, and they would send me away."

"Surely Katrina-"

"She is the reason I was able to cast the spells I did."

Again Elain screamed.

"Won't they at least let you ease her pain?"

"No more than I already have."

Eragon spun toward Horst's tent. "Is that so," he growled between clenched teeth.

A hand closed around his left arm and held him in place. Puzzled, he looked back at Arya for an  

explanation. She shook her head. "Don't," she said. "These are customs older than time itself. If you  

interfere, you will anger and embarrass Gertrude and turn many of the females from your village against  

you."

"I don't care about that!"

"I know, but trust me: right now the wisest thing you can do is to wait with the others." As if to

emphasize her point, she released his arm.

"I can't just stand by and let her suffer!"

"Listento me. It's better if you stay. I will help Elain however I can, that I promise, but do not go in

there. You will only cause strife and anger where none are needed.... Please."  

Eragon hesitated, then snarled with disgust and threw up his hands as Elain screamed yet again. "Fine,"

he said, and leaned close to Arya, "but whatever happens, don't let her or the child die. I don't care  

what you have to do, but don't let them die."

Arya studied him with a serious gaze. "I would never allow a child to come to harm," she said, and

resumed walking.

As she disappeared inside Horst's tent, Eragon returned to where Roran, Albriech, and Baldor were  

gathered and sank back down onto his barrel.

Page 53

"Well?" Roran asked.

"Well?" Roran asked.

"Seemed as if she had a fair bit more than that to say," said Baldor. "The meaning was the same."

The color of the sun shifted, becoming orange and crimson as it approached the terminating line of the  

earth. The few tattered clouds that remained in the western sky, remnants of the storm that had blown  

past earlier, acquired similar hues. Flocks of swallows swooped overhead, making their supper out of the  

moths and flies and other insects flitting about.

Over time, Elain's cries gradually decreased in strength, fading from her earlier, full-throated screams to  

low, broken moans that made Eragon's hackles prickle. More than anything, he wanted to free her from  

her torments, but he could not bring himself to ignore Arya's advice, so he stayed where he was and  

fidgeted and bit his bruised nails and engaged in short, stilted conversations with Saphira.

When the sun touched the earth, it spread out along the horizon, like a giant yolk oozing free of its skin.  

Bats began to mingle among the swallows, the flapping of their leathery wings faint and frantic, their  

high-pitched squeaks almost painfully sharp to Eragon.

Then Elain uttered a shriek that drowned out every other sound in the vicinity, a shriek the likes of which  

Eragon hoped he would never hear again.

A brief but profound silence followed.

It ended as the loud, hiccupping wail of a newborn child emanated from within the tent-the age-old  

fanfare that announced the arrival of a new person into the world. At the sound, Albriech and Baldor  

broke out grinning, as did Eragon and Roran, and several of the waiting men cheered.

Their jubilation was short-lived. Even as the last of the cheers died out, the women in the tent began to  

keen, a shrill, heartrending sound that made Eragon go cold with dread. He knew what their lamentations  

meant, what they had always meant: that tragedy of the worst kind had struck.

"No," he said, disbelieving, as he hopped off the barrel.She can't be dead. She can't be.... Arya  

promised .

As if in response to his thought, Arya tore back the flap to the tent and ran toward him, bounding across  

the lane with impossibly long strides.

"What's happened?" Baldor asked as she slowed to a halt.

Arya ignored him and said, "Eragon, come."

"What's happened?" Baldor exclaimed angrily, and reached for Arya's shoulder. In a flash of seemingly  

instantaneous movement, she caught his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to stand  

hunched over, like a cripple. His face contorted with pain.

"If you want your baby sister to live, then stand aside and do not interfere!" She released him with a  

push, sending him sprawling into Albriech's arms, then whirled about and strode back toward Horst's  

tent.

Page 54

"Whathas happened?" Eragon asked as he joined her.

"Whathas happened?" Eragon asked as he joined her.

Then Eragon understood the reason for the women's outpouring of grief. Children cursed with a cat lip  

were rarely allowed to live; they were difficult to feed, and even if the parents could feed them, such  

children would suffer a miserable lot: shunned, ridiculed, and unable to make a suitable match for  

marriage. In most cases, it would have been better for all if the child had been stillborn.

"You have to heal her, Eragon," said Arya.

"Me? But I've never ... Why not you? You know more about healing than I do."

"If I rework the child's appearance, people will say I have stolen her and replaced her with a changeling.  

Well I know the stories your kind tells about my race, Eragon-too well. I will do it if I must, but the  

child will suffer for it ever after. You are the only one who can save her from such a fate."

Panic clutched at him. He did not want to be responsible for the life of another person; he was already  

responsible for far too many.

"You have to heal her," Arya said, her tone forceful. Eragon reminded himself how dearly elves  

treasured their children, as well as children of all races.

"Will you assist me if I need it?"

"Of course."

As will I, said Saphira.Must you even ask?

"Right," said Eragon, and gripped Brisingr's pommel, his mind made up. "I'll do it."

With Arya trailing slightly behind, he marched over to the tent and pushed his way past the heavy woolen  

flaps. Candle smoke stung his eyes. Five women from Carvahall stood bunched together close to the  

wall. Their keening struck him like a physical blow. They swayed, trance-like, and tore at their clothes  

and hair as they wailed. Horst was by the end of the cot, arguing with Gertrude, his face red, puffy, and  

lined with exhaustion. For her part, the plump healer held a bundle of cloth against her bosom, a bundle  

that Eragon assumed contained the infant-although he could not see its face-for it wriggled and  

squalled, adding to the din. Gertrude's round cheeks shone with perspiration, and her hair clung to her  

skin. Her bare forearms were streaked with various fluids. At the head of the cot, Katrina knelt on a  

round cushion, wiping Elain's brow with a damp cloth.

Eragon hardly recognized Elain; her face was gaunt, and she had dark rings under her wandering eyes,  

which seemed incapable of focusing. A line of tears streamed from the outer corner of each eye, over her  

temples, and then vanished underneath the tangled locks of her hair. Her mouth opened and closed, and  

she moaned unintelligible words. A bloodstained sheet covered the rest of her.

Neither Horst nor Gertrude noticed Eragon until he approached them. Eragon had grown since he had  

left Carvahall, but Horst still stood a head taller. As they both looked at him, a flicker of hope brightened  

the smith's bleak expression.

"Eragon!" He clapped a heavy hand on Eragon's shoulder and leaned against him, as if events had left

Page 55

him barely able to stand. "You heard?" It was not really a question, but Eragon nodded anyway. Horst  

glanced at Gertrude-a quick, darting glance-then his large, shovel-like beard moved from side to side  

as his jaw worked, and his tongue appeared between his lips as he wet them. "Can you ... can you do  

anything for her, do you think?"

him barely able to stand. "You heard?" It was not really a question, but Eragon nodded anyway. Horst  

glanced at Gertrude-a quick, darting glance-then his large, shovel-like beard moved from side to side  

as his jaw worked, and his tongue appeared between his lips as he wet them. "Can you ... can you do  

anything for her, do you think?"

He held out his arms. After a moment's hesitation, Gertrude deposited the warm bundle in his hold, then  

backed away, her demeanor troubled.

Buried within the folds of fabric was the girl's tiny, wrinkled face. Her skin was dark red, her eyes were  

swollen shut, and she appeared to be grimacing, as if she was angry at her recent mistreatment-a  

response that Eragon thought was perfectly reasonable. Her most striking feature, however, was the wide  

gap that extended from her left nostril to the middle of her upper lip. Through it, her small pink tongue  

was visible; it lay like a soft, moist slug, occasionally twitching.

"Please," said Horst. "Is there any way you can ..."

Eragon winced as the women's keening struck a particularly shrill note. "I can't work here," he said.

As he turned to leave, Gertrude spoke up behind him, saying, "I'll come with you. One of us who knows  

how to care for a child needs to stay with her."

Eragon did not want Gertrude hovering about him while he tried to mend the girl's face, and he was  

about to tell her just that when he remembered what Arya had said about changelings. Someone from  

Carvahall, someone the rest of the villagers trusted, ought to bear witness to the girl's transformation, so  

that they could later assure people that the child was still the same person as she had been before.

"As you wish," he said, stifling his objections.

The baby squirmed in his arms and uttered a plaintive cry as he exited the tent. Across the lane, the  

villagers stood and pointed, and Albriech and Baldor started toward him. Eragon shook his head, and  

they stopped where they were and gazed after him with helpless expressions.

Arya and Gertrude took up positions on either side of Eragon as he walked through the camp to his tent,  

and the ground trembled under their feet as Saphira followed. Warriors in the path quickly moved aside  

to let them pass.

Eragon strove to keep his steps as smooth as possible, in order to avoid jostling the child. A strong,  

musty aroma clung to the girl, like the smell of a forest floor on a warm summer day.

They had almost reached their destination when Eragon saw the witch-child, Elva, standing between two  

rows of tents next to the path, solemn-faced as she stared at him with her large violet eyes. She wore a  

black and purple dress with a long veil of lace that was folded back over her head, exposing the silvery,  

star-shaped mark, similar to his gedwëy ignasia, on her forehead.

Not a word did she say, nor did she attempt to slow or stop him. Nevertheless, Eragon understood her  

warning, for her very presence was a rebuke to him. Once before he had tampered with the fate of an  

infant, and with dire consequences. He could not allow himself to make such a mistake again, not only  

because of the harm it would cause, but because if he did, Elva would become his sworn enemy. Despite  

all his power, Eragon feared Elva. Her ability to peer into people's souls and divine everything that

Page 56

pained and troubled them-and to foresee everything that was about to hurt them-made her one of the  

most dangerous beings in all of Alagaësia.

pained and troubled them-and to foresee everything that was about to hurt them-made her one of the  

most dangerous beings in all of Alagaësia.

A CRADLESONG

aint light from the dying sun seeped into Eragon's tent. Everything within was gray, as if it were carved  

from granite. With his elf vision, Eragon could see the shape of objects easily enough, but he knew that  

Gertrude would have trouble, so for her sake he said, "Naina hvitr un böllr," and set a small, glowing  

werelight floating in the air by the peak of the tent. The soft white orb produced no discernible heat but as  

much illumination as a bright lantern. He refrained from using the wordbrisingr in the spell, so as to avoid  

setting the blade of his sword on fire.

He heard Gertrude pause behind him, and he turned to see her staring at the werelight and clutching at  

the bag she had brought with her. Her familiar face reminded him of home and Carvahall, and he felt an  

unexpected lurch of homesickness.

She slowly lowered her gaze to his. "How you have changed," she said. "The boy I once sat watch over  

as he fought off a fever is long gone, I think."

"You know me still," he replied.

"No, I don't believe I do."

Her statement troubled him, but he could not afford to dwell on it, so he pushed it out of his mind and  

went to his cot. Gently, ever so gently, he transferred the newborn from his arms onto the blankets, as  

carefully as if she were made of glass. The girl waved a clenched fist at him. He smiled and touched it  

with the tip of his right forefinger, and she burbled softly.

"What do you intend to do?" asked Gertrude as she sat on the lone stool near the tent wall. "How will  

you heal her?"

"I'm not sure."

Just then, Eragon noticed that Arya had not accompanied them into the tent. He called her name, and a  

moment later, she answered from outside, her voice muffled by the thick fabric that separated them. "I  

am here," she said. "And here I shall wait. If you have need of me, you have but to cast your thoughts in  

my direction and I shall come."

Eragon frowned slightly. He had counted on having her close at hand during the procedure, to help him  

where he was ignorant and to correct him if he made any mistake.Well, no matter. I can still ask her  

questions if I want to. Only this way, Gertrude will have no reason to suspect that Arya had  

anything to do with the girl . He was struck by the precautions that Arya was taking in order to avoid  

arousing suspicion that the girl was a changeling, and he wondered if she had once been accused of

Page 57

stealing someone's child.

stealing someone's child.

What do you think?he asked.

Go slowly, so that you do not bite your tail by accident.

He agreed with her, then, feeling impish, asked,And have you ever done that? Bitten your tail, I  

mean?

She remained silently aloof, but he caught a brief flash of sensations: a medley of images-trees, grass,  

sunshine, the mountains of the Spine-as well as the cloying scent of red orchids and a sudden painful,  

pinching sensation, as if a door had slammed shut on her tail.

Eragon chuckled quietly to himself, then concentrated on composing the spells he thought he would need  

to heal the girl. It took quite a while, almost a half hour. He and Saphira spent most of that time going  

over the arcane sentences again and again, examining and debating every word and phrase-and even  

his pronunciation-in an attempt to ensure that the spells would do what he intended and nothing more.

In the midst of their silent conversation, Gertrude shifted in her seat and said, "She looks the same as  

ever. The work goes badly, doesn't it? There is no need to hide the truth from me, Eragon; I have dealt  

with far worse in my day."

Eragon raised his eyebrows and, in a mild voice, said, "The work has not yet begun."

And Gertrude sank back, subdued. From within her bag, she removed a ball of yellow yarn, a  

half-finished sweater, and a pair of polished birch knitting needles. Her fingers moved with practiced  

speed, quick and deft, as she began to knit and purl. The steady clacking of her needles comforted  

Eragon; it was a sound he had heard often during his childhood, one that he associated with sitting around  

a kitchen fireplace on cool autumn evenings, listening to the adults tell stories while they smoked a pipe or  

savored a draught of dark brown ale after a large dinner.

At last, when he and Saphira were satisfied that the spells were safe, and Eragon was confident that his  

tongue would not trip over any of the strange sounds of the ancient language, Eragon drew upon the  

combined strength of both their bodies and prepared to cast the first of the enchantments.

Then he hesitated.

When the elves used magic to coax a tree or a flower to grow in the shape they desired, or to alter their  

body or that of another creature, they always, so far as he knew, couched the spell in the form of a song.  

It seemed only fitting that he should do the same. But he was acquainted with only a few of the elves'  

many songs and none of them well enough to accurately-or even adequately-reproduce such beautiful  

and complex melodies.

So, instead, he chose a song from the deepest recesses of his memory, a song that his aunt Marian had  

sung to him when he was little, before the sickness had taken her, a song that the women of Carvahall  

had crooned to their children from time immemorial when they tucked them under the covers for a long  

night's sleep: a lullaby-a cradle song. The notes were simple, easy to remember, and had a soothing

Page 58

quality that he hoped would help keep the infant calm.

quality that he hoped would help keep the infant calm.

She stirred in her sleep, as if in response, and her clenched expression softened.

Then Eragon intoned the first of the spells: a simple incantation that consisted of two short sentences,  

which he recited over and over again, like a prayer. And the small pink hollow where the two sides of the  

girl's divided lip met shimmered and crawled, as if a dormant creature were stirring beneath the surface.

What he was attempting was far from easy. The infant's bones, like those of every newborn child, were  

soft and cartilaginous, different from those of an adult and thus different from all of the bones he had  

mended during his time with the Varden. He had to be careful not to fill the gap in her mouth with the  

bone, flesh, and skin of an adult, or those areas would not grow properly along with the rest of her body.  

Also, when he repaired the gap in her upper palate and gums, he would have to move, straighten, and  

make symmetrical the roots of what would become her two front teeth, something he had never done  

before. And further complicating the process was the fact that he had never seen the girl without her  

deformity, so he was uncertain how her lip and mouth ought to appear. She looked like every other baby  

he had seen: round, pudgy, and lacking definition. He worried, then, that he might give her a face that  

appeared pleasant enough at the moment, but that would become strange and unattractive as the years  

passed.

So he proceeded cautiously, making only small changes at a time and pausing after each one to ponder  

the result. He started with the deepest layers of the girl's face, with the bones and cartilage, and slowly  

worked his way outward, singing all the while.

At a certain point, Saphira began to hum along with him from where she lay outside, her deep voice  

making the air vibrate. The werelight brightened and dimmed in accordance with the volume of her  

humming, a phenomenon that Eragon found exceedingly curious. He resolved to ask Saphira about it  

later.

Word by word, spell by spell, hour by hour, the night wore on, though Eragon paid no attention to the  

time. When the girl cried from hunger, he fed her with a trickle of energy. He and Saphira tried to avoid  

touching her mind with theirs-not knowing how the contact might affect her immature  

consciousness-but they still brushed against it occasionally; her mind felt vague and indistinct to Eragon,  

a thrashing sea of unmoderated emotions that reduced everything else in the world to insignificance.

Beside him, Gertrude's needles continued to clack, the only interruption in the rhythm coming when the  

healer lost count of her stitches or had to tink back several knits or purls in order to correct a mistake.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the fissure in the girl's gums and palate fused into a seamless whole, the two  

sides of her cat lip pulled together-her skin flowing like liquid-and her upper lip gradually formed a  

pink bow free of flaws.

Eragon fiddled and tweaked and worried over the shape of her lip for the longest while, until at last  

Saphira said,It is done. Leave it , and he was forced to admit that he could not improve the girl's  

appearance any more, only make it worse.

Then he let the cradle song fade to silence. His tongue felt thick and dry, his throat raw. He pushed

Page 59

himself off the cot and stood half crouched over it, too stiff to straighten up entirely.

himself off the cot and stood half crouched over it, too stiff to straighten up entirely.

And what about me?said Saphira.My bones ache as much as yours . Her admission surprised him;  

she rarely acknowledged her own discomfort, no matter how extreme. The fighting must have taken a  

greater toll on her than had first been apparent. As he reached that conclusion, and Saphira became  

aware of it, she withdrew from him slightly and said,Tired or not, I can still crush however many  

soldiers Galbatorix sends against us .

I know.

Returning the knitting to her bag, Gertrude stood and hobbled over to the cot. "Never did I think to see  

such a thing," she said. "Least of all from you, Eragon Bromsson." She peered at him inquiringly. "Brom  

was your father, wasn't he?"

Eragon nodded, then croaked, "That he was."

"It seems fitting, somehow."

Eragon was not inclined to discuss the topic further, so he merely grunted and extinguished the werelight  

with a glance and a thought. Instantly, all went dark, save for the predawn glow. His eyes adjusted to the  

change faster than Gertrude's; she blinked and frowned and swung her head from side to side, as if  

unsure of where he stood.

The girl was warm and heavy in Eragon's arms as he picked her up. He was uncertain whether his  

weariness was due to the magic he had wrought or to the sheer length of time the task had taken him.

He gazed down at the girl and, feeling suddenly protective, murmured, "Sé ono waíse ilia." May you be  

happy. It was not a spell, not properly, but he hoped that maybe it could help her avoid some of the  

misery that afflicted so many people. Failing that, he hoped it would make her smile.

It did. A wide smile spread across her diminutive face, and with great enthusiasm, she said, "Gahh!"

Eragon smiled as well, then turned and strode outside.

As the entrance flaps fell away, he saw a small crowd gathered in a semicircle around the tent, some  

standing, some sitting, others squatting. Most he recognized from Carvahall, but Arya and the other elves  

were also there-somewhat apart from the rest-as well as several warriors of the Varden whose names  

he did not know. He spotted Elva lurking behind a nearby tent, her black lace veil lowered, hiding her  

face.

The group, Eragon realized, must have been waiting for hours, and he had not sensed anything of their  

presence. He had been safe enough with Saphira and the elves keeping watch, but that was no excuse  

for allowing himself to become so complacent.

I have to do better, he told himself.

Page 60

At the forefront of the crowd stood Horst and his sons, looking worried. Horst's brow knotted as he  

gazed at the bundle in Eragon's arms, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound  

came forth.

At the forefront of the crowd stood Horst and his sons, looking worried. Horst's brow knotted as he  

gazed at the bundle in Eragon's arms, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound  

came forth.

As he gave the girl to Horst, Eragon said, "My hands are too bloody for this kind of work, but I'm glad  

I was able to help."

Horst touched the girl's upper lip with the tip of his middle finger, then shook his head. "I can't believe  

it.... I can't believe it." He looked at Eragon. "Elain and I are forevermore in your debt. If-"

"There is no debt," Eragon said gently. "I only did what anyone would if they had the ability."

"But you were the one who healed her, and it's to you I'm grateful."

Eragon hesitated, then bowed his head, accepting Horst's gratitude. "What will you name her?"

The smith beamed at his daughter. "If it's agreeable to Elain, I thought we might call her Hope."

"Hope ... A good name, that."And don't we need some hope in our lives? "And how is Elain?"

"Tired, but well."

Then Albriech and Baldor clustered around their father, peering at their new sister, as did  

Gertrude-who had emerged from the tent soon after Eragon-and once their shyness faded, the rest of  

the villagers joined them. Even the group of curious warriors pressed close to Horst, craning their necks  

in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the girl.

After a while, the elves unfolded their long limbs and approached as well. Seeing them, people quickly  

stepped out of the way, clearing a path to Horst. The smith stiffened and pushed his jaw out like a  

bulldog's as, one by one, the elves bent and examined the girl, sometimes whispering a word or two in  

the ancient language to her. They did not seem to notice or mind the suspicious stares that the villagers  

cast at them.

When only three elves were left in line, Elva darted out from behind the tent where she had been  

concealing herself and joined the end of the procession. She did not have to wait long before it was her  

turn to stand before Horst. Although he appeared reluctant, the smith lowered his arms and bent his  

knees, but he was so much taller than Elva, she had to rise up on the tips of her toes in order to see the  

infant. Eragon held his breath as she gazed at the formerly deformed child, unable to guess her reaction  

through her veil.

After a few seconds, Elva dropped back onto her heels. With a deliberate pace, she started down the  

path that ran past Eragon's tent. Twenty yards away, she stopped and turned toward him.

He tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow.

She nodded, a short, abrupt movement, then continued on her way.

Page 61

As Eragon watched her go, Arya sidled up to him. "You should be proud of what you have  

accomplished," she murmured. "The child is sound and well formed. Not even our most skilled  

enchanters could improve on your gramarye. It is a great thing, what you have given this girl-a face and  

a future-and she will not forget it, I am sure.... None of us will."

As Eragon watched her go, Arya sidled up to him. "You should be proud of what you have  

accomplished," she murmured. "The child is sound and well formed. Not even our most skilled  

enchanters could improve on your gramarye. It is a great thing, what you have given this girl-a face and  

a future-and she will not forget it, I am sure.... None of us will."

"You're welcome. I would have been remiss not to."

Horst turned then and carried the child into the tent so that Elain might see her newborn daughter, but the  

knot of people showed no signs of dispersing. When Eragon was fed up with shaking hands and  

answering questions, he said farewell to Arya, then slipped off to his tent and tied the flaps closed behind  

him.

Unless we're under attack, I don't want to see anyone for the next ten hours, not even Nasuada,  

he said to Saphira as he threw himself onto his cot.Will you tell Blödhgarm, please?

Of course, she said.Rest, little one, as will I .

Eragon sighed and draped an arm over his face to block the morning light. His breathing slowed, his  

mind began to wander, and soon the strange sights and sounds of his waking dreams enveloped  

him-real, yet imaginary; vivid, yet transparent, as if the visions were made of colored glass-and, for a  

time, he was able to forget his responsibilities and the harrowing events of the past day. And all through  

his dreams, there wound the cradle song, like a whisper of wind, half heard, half forgotten, and it lulled  

him, with memories of his home, into a childlike peace.

NOREST FOR THEWEARY

wo dwarves, two men, and two Urgals-members of Nasuada's personal guard, the  

Nighthawks-were stationed outside the room in the castle where Nasuada had set up her headquarters.

They stared at Roran with flat, empty eyes. He kept his face equally as blank as he stared back.

It was a game they had played before.

Despite the Nighthawks' lack of expression, he knew they were busy figuring out the fastest and most  

efficient ways to kill him. He knew, because he was doing the same with regard to them, as he always  

did.

Page 62

I'd have to backtrack as fast as I could ... spread them out a bit, he decided.The men would get to  

me first; they're faster than the dwarves, and they'd slow the Urgals behind them.... Have to get  

those halberds away from them. It'd be tricky, but I think I could-one of them, at least. Might  

have to throw my hammer. Once I had a halberd, I could keep the rest at a distance. The dwarves  

wouldn't stand much of a chance, then, but the Urgals would be trouble. Ugly brutes, those.... If I  

used that pillar as cover, I could-

I'd have to backtrack as fast as I could ... spread them out a bit, he decided.The men would get to  

me first; they're faster than the dwarves, and they'd slow the Urgals behind them.... Have to get  

those halberds away from them. It'd be tricky, but I think I could-one of them, at least. Might  

have to throw my hammer. Once I had a halberd, I could keep the rest at a distance. The dwarves  

wouldn't stand much of a chance, then, but the Urgals would be trouble. Ugly brutes, those.... If I  

used that pillar as cover, I could-

Several of the guards twitched, distracted, and their stares wavered for a second. Roran smiled as he  

swept past them and into the room beyond, knowing that their lapse, slight as it was, would have allowed  

him to kill at least two before they could have retaliated.Until next time , he thought.

The room was large, rectangular, and sparsely decorated: a too-small rug lay on the floor; a narrow,  

moth-eaten tapestry hung from the wall to his left; and a single lancet window pierced the wall to his right.  

Other than that, the room was devoid of ornamentation. Shoved into one corner was a long wooden  

table piled high with books, scrolls, and loose sheets of paper. A few massive chairs-upholstered with  

leather fastened with rows of tarnished brass tacks-stood scattered about the table, but neither  

Nasuada nor the dozen people who bustled around her deigned to use them. Jörmundur was not there,  

but Roran was familiar with several of the other warriors present: some he had fought under, others he  

had seen in action during battle or heard tell of from the men in his company.

"-and I don't care if it does give him a 'pain in his goiter'!" she exclaimed, and brought her right hand  

down flat on the table with a loudslap . "If we don't have those horseshoes, and more besides, we might  

as well eat our horses for all the good they'll do us. Do I make myself understood?"

As one, the men she addressed answered in the affirmative. They sounded somewhat intimidated, even  

abashed. Roran found it both strange and impressive that Nasuada, a woman, was able to command  

such respect from her warriors, a respect that he shared. She was one of the most determined and  

intelligent people he had ever known, and he was convinced that she would have succeeded no matter  

where she had been born.

"Now go," said Nasuada, and as eight men filed past her, she motioned Roran to the table. He waited  

patiently as she dipped a quill in an inkpot and scribbled several lines onto a small scroll, then handed it to  

one of the pages and said, "For the dwarf Narheim. And this time, make sure you get his reply before  

you return, or I'll send you over to the Urgals to fetch and clean for them."

"Yes, my Lady!" said the boy, and sprinted off, half frightened out of his wits.

Nasuada began to leaf through a stack of papers in front of her. Without looking up, she said, "Are you  

well rested, Roran?"

He wondered why she was interested. "Not particularly."

"That's unfortunate. Were you up all night?"

"Part of it. Elain, the wife of our smith, gave birth yesterday, but-"

Page 63

"Yes, I was informed. I take it that you didn't stand vigil until Eragon healed the child?"

"Yes, I was informed. I take it that you didn't stand vigil until Eragon healed the child?"

"At least you had that much sense." Reaching across the table, she picked up another sheet of paper and  

scrutinized it before adding it to her pile. In the same matter-of-fact tone she had been using, she said, "I  

have a mission for you, Stronghammer. Our forces at Aroughs have encountered stiff resistance-more  

than we anticipated. Captain Brigman has failed to resolve the situation, and we need those men back  

now. Therefore, I am sending you to Aroughs to replace Brigman. A horse is waiting for you by the south  

gate. You will ride fast as you can to Feinster, then from Feinster to Aroughs. Fresh horses will be  

waiting for you every ten miles between here and Feinster. Past there, you will have to find replacements  

on your own. I expect you to reach Aroughs within four days. Once you have caught up on your rest,  

that will leave you approximately ... three days to end the siege." She glanced up at him. "A week from  

today, I want our banner flying over Aroughs. I don't care how you do it, Stronghammer; I just want it  

done. If you can't, then I'll have no choice but to send Eragon and Saphira to Aroughs, which will leave  

us barely able to defend ourselves should Murtagh or Galbatorix attack."

And then Katrina would be in danger, thought Roran. An unpleasant feeling settled in his gut. Riding  

to Aroughs in only four days would be a miserable ordeal, especially given how sore and bruised he was.  

Having to also capture the city in so little time would be compounding misery with madness. All in all, the  

mission was about as appealing as wrestling a bear with his hands tied behind his back.

He scratched his cheek through his beard. "I don't have any experience with sieges," he said.  

"Leastways, not like this. There must be someone else in the Varden who would be better suited to the  

task. What about Martland Redbeard?"

Nasuada made a dismissive motion. "He can't ride at full gallop with only one hand. You should have  

more confidence in yourself, Stronghammer. There are others among the Varden who know more about  

the arts of war, it's true-men who have been in the field longer, men who received instruction from the  

finest warriors of their father's generation-but when swords are drawn and battle is joined, it's not  

knowledge or experience that matters most, it's whether you canwin , and that's a trick you seem to  

have mastered. What's more, you're lucky."

She put down the topmost papers and leaned on her arms. "You've proven that you can fight. You've  

proven that you can follow orders ... when it pleases you, that is." He resisted the urge to hunch his  

shoulders as he remembered the bitter, white-hot bite of the whip cutting into his back after he had been  

disciplined for defying Captain Edric's orders. "You've proven that you can lead a raiding party. So,  

Roran Stronghammer, let us see if you are capable of something more, shall we?"

He swallowed. "Yes, my Lady."

"Good. I am promoting you to captain for the time being. If you succeed in Aroughs, you may consider  

the title permanent, at least until you demonstrate that you are deserving of either greater or lesser  

honors." Returning her gaze to the table, she began to sort through a morass of scrolls, evidently  

searching for something hidden underneath.

"Thank you."

Nasuada responded with a faint, noncommittal sound.

"How many men will I have under my command at Aroughs?" he asked.

Page 64

"I gave Brigman a thousand warriors to capture the city. Of those, no more than eight hundred remain  

who are still fit for duty."

"I gave Brigman a thousand warriors to capture the city. Of those, no more than eight hundred remain  

who are still fit for duty."

As if she had heard him, Nasuada said in a dry voice, "We were led to believe that Aroughs's defenses  

would be easier to overwhelm than has been the case."

"I see. May I take two or three men from Carvahall with me? You said once that you would let us serve  

together if we-"

"Yes, yes"-she waved a hand-"I know what I said." She pursed her lips, considering. "Very well,  

take whomever you want, just so long as you leave within the hour. Let me know how many are going  

with you, and I'll see to it that the appropriate number of horses are waiting along the way."

"May I take Carn?" he asked, naming the magician he had fought alongside on several occasions.

She paused and stared at the wall for a moment, her eyes unfocused. Then, to his relief, she nodded and  

resumed digging in the jumble of scrolls. "Ah, here we are." She pulled out a tube of parchment tied with  

a leather thong. "A map of Aroughs and its environs, as well as a larger map of Fenmark Province. I  

suggest you study them both most carefully."

She handed him the tube, which he slipped inside his tunic. "And here," she said, giving him a rectangle  

of folded parchment sealed with a blob of red wax, "is your commission, and"-a second rectangle,  

thicker than the first-"here are your orders. Show them to Brigman, but don't let him keep them. If I  

remember correctly, you've never learned to read, have you?"

He shrugged. "What for? I can count and figure as well as any man. My father said that teaching us to  

read made no more sense than teaching a dog to walk on his hind legs: amusing, but hardly worth the  

effort."

"And I might agree, had you stayed a farmer. But you didn't, and you're not." She motioned toward the  

pieces of parchment he held. "For all you know, one of those might be a writ ordering your execution.  

You are of limited use to me like this, Stronghammer. I cannot send you messages without others having  

to read them to you, and if you need to report to me, you will have no choice but to trust one of your  

underlings to record your words accurately. It makes you easy to manipulate. It makes you  

untrustworthy. If you hope to advance any further in the Varden, I suggest you find someone to teach  

you. Now begone; there are other matters that demand my attention."

She snapped her fingers, and one of the pages ran over to her. Placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, she  

bent down to his level and said, "I want you to fetch Jörmundur directly here. You'll find him somewhere  

along the market street, where those three houses-" In the midst of her instructions, she stopped and  

raised an eyebrow as she noticed that Roran had not budged. "Is there something else, Stronghammer?"  

she asked.

"Yes. Before I leave, I'd like to see Eragon."

"And why is that?"

"Most of the wards he gave me before the battle are gone now."

Page 65

Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, "On the market street, where those three houses were burned.  

Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then." She patted the boy on the back and stood  

upright as he ran out of the room. "It would be better if you didn't."

Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, "On the market street, where those three houses were burned.  

Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then." She patted the boy on the back and stood  

upright as he ran out of the room. "It would be better if you didn't."

"He could barely stay on his feet."

"Exactly. He's spread too thin, Roran. He can't protect you, me, Saphira, Arya, and who knows who  

else and still do what he has to. He needs to husband his strength for when he will have to fight Murtagh  

and Galbatorix. And the closer we get to Urû'baen, the more important it is that he be ready to face them  

at any given moment, night or day. We can't allow all of these other worries and distractions to weaken  

him. It was noble of him to heal the child's cat lip, but his doing so could have cost us the war!

"You fought without the advantage of wards when the Ra'zac attacked your village in the Spine. If you  

care about your cousin, if you care about defeating Galbatorix, you must learn to fight without them  

again."

When she finished, Roran bowed his head. She was right. "I'll depart at once."

"I appreciate that."

"By your leave ..."

Turning, Roran strode toward the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Nasuada called out, "Oh, and  

Stronghammer?"

He looked back, curious.

"Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace."

DANCING WITHSWORDS

ragon drummed his heels against the side of the boulder he was sitting on, bored and impatient to be  

gone.

He, Saphira, and Arya-as well as Blödhgarm and the other elves-were lounging on the bank next to  

the road that ran eastward from the city of Belatona: eastward through fields of ripe, verdant crops; over  

a wide stone bridge that arched across the Jiet River; and then around the southernmost point of Leona  

Lake. There the road branched, one fork turning to the right, toward the Burning Plains and Surda, the  

other turning north, toward Dras-Leona and eventually Urû'baen.

Thousands of men, dwarves, and Urgals milled about before Belatona's eastern gate, as well as within

Page 66

the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a cohesive unit. In addition to  

the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin's cavalry-a mass of prancing, snorting  

horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half-long  

line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had  

brought from Surda and supplemented by what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers  

along their path. From the herds and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and  

donkeys, the honking of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.

the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a cohesive unit. In addition to  

the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin's cavalry-a mass of prancing, snorting  

horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half-long  

line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had  

brought from Surda and supplemented by what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers  

along their path. From the herds and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and  

donkeys, the honking of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.

You would think we would be better at this, considering how many times we've done it before, he  

commented to Saphira as he hopped down off the boulder.

She sniffed.They ought to put me in charge; I could scare them intoposition in less than an hour,  

and then we wouldn't have to waste so much time waiting .

The thought amused him.Yes, I'm sure you could.... Be careful what you say, though, or Nasuada  

might just make you do it .

Then Eragon's mind turned to Roran, whom he had not seen since the night he had healed Horst and  

Elain's child, and he wondered how his cousin was doing and worried about leaving him so far behind.

"Blasted fool thing to do," Eragon muttered, remembering how Roran had left without letting him renew  

his wards.

He's an experienced hunter, Saphira pointed out.He will not be so foolish as to allow his prey to  

claw him .

I know, but sometimes it can't be helped.... He had best be careful, that's all. I don't want him to  

come back a cripple or, worse, wrapped in a shroud.

A grim mood descended upon Eragon, then he shook himself and bounced up and down on his feet,  

restless and eager to do something physical before spending the next few hours sitting on Saphira. He  

welcomed the opportunity to fly with her, but he disliked the prospect of being tethered to the same  

twelve or so miles for the whole day, circling vulture-like over the slow-moving troops. On their own, he  

and Saphira could have reached Dras-Leona by late that very afternoon.

He trotted away from the road to a relatively flat stretch of grass. There, ignoring the looks from Arya  

and the rest of the elves, he drew Brisingr and assumed the on-guard position Brom had first taught him  

so long ago. He inhaled slowly and settled into a low stance, feeling the texture of the ground through the  

soles of his boots.

With a short, hard exclamation, he swept the sword up around his head and brought it down in a slanting  

blow that would have halved any man, elf, or Urgal, regardless of their armor. He stopped the sword less  

than an inch above the ground and held it there, the blade trembling ever so slightly in his grip. Against the  

backdrop of the grass, the blue of the metal appeared vivid, almost unreal.

Eragon inhaled again and lunged forward, stabbing the air as if it were a deadly enemy. One by one, he  

practiced the basic moves of sword fighting, focusing not so much on speed or strength but on precision.

When he was pleasantly warm from his skill work, he glanced round at his guards, who stood in a

Page 67

semicircle some distance away. "Will one of you cross swords with me for a few minutes?" he asked,  

raising his voice.

semicircle some distance away. "Will one of you cross swords with me for a few minutes?" he asked,  

raising his voice.

"Agreed."

Eragon returned Brisingr to its sheath, then ran to Saphira and clambered up her side, cutting the pad of  

his left thumb on one of her scales as he did so. He was wearing his mail tunic, and his greaves and  

bracers too, but he had stowed his helm in one of the saddlebags, so that it would not roll off Saphira and  

become lost in the grass.

As he retrieved the helm, he saw the casket that contained Glaedr's heart of hearts wrapped in a blanket  

and nestled at the bottom of the saddlebag. He reached down and touched the knotted bundle, silently  

paying tribute to what remained of the majestic golden dragon, then closed the saddlebag and swung  

down from Saphira's back.

Eragon donned his arming cap and helm as he strode back to the greensward. He licked the blood off  

his thumb, then pulled on his gauntlets, hoping that the cut would not bleed too much into the glove. Using  

slight variations of the same spell, he and Wyrden placed thin barriers-invisible, save for the faint,  

rippling distortion they caused in the air-over the edges of their swords, so they could not cut anything.  

They also lowered the wards that protected them from physical danger.

Then he and Wyrden took up positions opposite each other, bowed, and raised their blades. Eragon  

stared into the elf's black, unblinking eyes, even as Wyrden stared at him. Keeping his gaze fixed on his  

opponent, Eragon felt his way forward and tried to inch around Wyrden's right side, where the  

right-handed elf would have more difficulty defending himself.

The elf slowly turned, crushing the grass beneath his heels as he kept his front oriented toward Eragon.  

After a few more steps, Eragon stopped. Wyrden was too alert and too experienced for Eragon to flank  

him; he would never catch the elf off balance.Unless, of course, I can distract him .

But before he could decide how to proceed, Wyrden feinted toward Eragon's right leg, as if to skewer  

him in the knee, then in midstroke, changed directions, twisting his wrist and arm to slash Eragon across  

his chest and neck.

Fast as the elf was, Eragon was faster still. As he spotted the shift in Wyrden's posture that betrayed his  

intentions, Eragon retreated a half step while bending his elbow and whipping his sword up past his face.

"Ha!" shouted Eragon as he caught Wyrden's sword on Brisingr. The blades produced a piercingclang  

as they collided.

With an effort, Eragon shoved Wyrden back, then leaped after him, battering him with a series of furious  

blows.

For several minutes, they fought upon the sward. Eragon landed the first touch-a light rap on Wyrden's  

hip-and the second as well, but thereafter, their duel was more equally matched, as the elf got the  

measure of him and began to anticipate his patterns of attack and defense. Eragon rarely had the  

opportunity to test himself against anyone as fast or strong as Wyrden, so he enjoyed the contest with the  

elf.

Page 68

His pleasure, however, vanished when Wyrden landed four touches in quick succession: one on  

Eragon's right shoulder, two on his ribs, and a wicked draw cut across his abdomen. The blows smarted,  

but Eragon's pride smarted even more. It worried him that the elf had been able to slip past his guard so  

easily. If they had been fighting in earnest, Eragon knew that he would have been able to defeat Wyrden  

in their first few exchanges, but that thought was of little comfort.

His pleasure, however, vanished when Wyrden landed four touches in quick succession: one on  

Eragon's right shoulder, two on his ribs, and a wicked draw cut across his abdomen. The blows smarted,  

but Eragon's pride smarted even more. It worried him that the elf had been able to slip past his guard so  

easily. If they had been fighting in earnest, Eragon knew that he would have been able to defeat Wyrden  

in their first few exchanges, but that thought was of little comfort.

Yes, I realize that, he growled.

Do you want me to knock him over for you?

No ... not today.

His mood soured, Eragon lowered his blade and thanked Wyrden for sparring. The elf bowed and said,  

"You're welcome, Shadeslayer," then returned to his place among his comrades.

Eragon planted Brisingr in the ground between his boots-something he never would have done with a  

sword made of ordinary steel-and rested his hands on the pommel while he watched the men and  

animals jostling within the confines of the road that led from the vast stone city. The turbulence within the  

ranks had diminished substantially, and he guessed that it would not be long before the horns signaled the  

Varden to advance.

In the meantime, he was still restless.

He looked over at Arya, where she stood next to Saphira, and a smile gradually spread across his face.  

Resting Brisingr on his shoulder, he sauntered over and motioned toward her sword. "Arya, what about  

you? We've only sparred together that one time in Farthen Dûr." His grin widened, and he flourished  

Brisingr. "I've gotten a bit better since then."

"So you have."

"What say you, then?"

She cast a critical glance toward the Varden, then shrugged. "Why not?"

As they walked to the level patch of grass, he said, "You won't be able to best me quite so easily as  

before."

"I am sure you are right."

Arya prepared her sword, then they faced each other, some thirty feet apart. Feeling confident, Eragon  

advanced swiftly, already knowing where he was going to strike: at her left shoulder.

Arya held her ground and made no attempt to evade him. When he was less than four yards away, she  

smiled at him, a warm, brilliant smile that so enhanced her beauty, Eragon faltered, his thoughts dissolving  

into a muddle.

A line of steel flashed toward him.

Page 69

He belatedly lifted Brisingr to deflect the blow. A jolt ran up his arm as the tip of the sword glanced off  

something solid-hilt, blade, or flesh he was not sure, but whatever it was, he knew that he had  

misjudged the distance and that his response had left him open to attack.

He belatedly lifted Brisingr to deflect the blow. A jolt ran up his arm as the tip of the sword glanced off  

something solid-hilt, blade, or flesh he was not sure, but whatever it was, he knew that he had  

misjudged the distance and that his response had left him open to attack.

Eragon grunted as he landed on his back and the air rushed out of him. He gaped at the sky and tried to  

inhale, but his abdomen was cramped as hard as a stone, and he could not draw air into his lungs. A  

constellation of crimson spots appeared before his eyes, and for a few uncomfortable seconds, he feared  

he would lose consciousness. Then his muscles released, and with a loud gasp, he resumed breathing.

Once his head cleared, he slowly got back to his feet, using Brisingr for support. He leaned on the  

sword, standing hunched like an old man while he waited for the ache in his stomach to subside.

"You cheated," he said between gritted teeth.

"No, I exploited a weakness in my opponent. There is a difference."

"You think ... that is aweakness ?"

"When we fight, yes. Do you wish to continue?"

He answered by yanking Brisingr out of the sod, marching back to where he had started, and raising his  

sword.

"Good," said Arya. She mirrored his pose.

This time Eragon was much more wary as he closed with her, and Arya did not stay in the same place.  

With careful steps, she advanced, her clear green eyes never leaving him.

She twitched, and Eragon flinched.

He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to relax.

Another step forward, then he swung with all his speed and might.

She blocked his cut to her ribs and replied with a jab toward his exposed armpit. The blunted edge of  

her sword slid across the back of his free hand, scraping against the mail sewn onto his gauntlet as he  

slapped the blade away. At that moment, Arya's torso was exposed, but they were too close for Eragon  

to effectively slash or stab.

Instead, he lunged forward and struck at her breastbone with the pommel of his sword, thinking to

knock her to the ground, as she had done to him.

She twisted out of the way, and the pommel went through the space where she had been as Eragon  

stumbled forward.

Without knowing quite how it had happened, he found himself standing motionless with one of Arya's  

arms wrapped around his neck and the cool, slippery surface of her spell-bound blade pressed against

Page 70

the side of his jaw.

the side of his jaw.

Then she released her hold and shoved him away. Angry, he whirled around and saw that she was  

already waiting for him, her sword at the ready and her expression determined.

Giving in to his anger, Eragon sprang after her.

Four blows they exchanged, each more terrible than the last. Arya struck first, chopping at his legs. He  

parried and slashed crosswise at her waist, but she skipped out of reach of Brisingr's glittering, sunlit  

edge. Without giving her an opportunity to retaliate, he followed up with a looping underhand cut, which  

she blocked with deceptive ease. Then she stepped forward and, with a touch as light as a  

hummingbird's wing, drew her sword across his belly.

Arya held her position at the conclusion of the stroke, her face mere inches from his. Her forehead  

glistened and her cheeks were flushed.

With exaggerated care, they disengaged.

Eragon straightened his tunic, then squatted next to Arya. His battle rage had burned itself out and left  

him focused, if not entirely at ease.

"I don't understand," he said quietly.

"You have become too accustomed to fighting Galbatorix's soldiers. They cannot hope to match you, so  

you take chances that would otherwise prove your undoing. Your attacks are too obvious-you should  

not rely on brute strength-and you have grown lax in your defense."

"Will you help me?" he asked. "Will you spar with me when you can?"

She nodded. "Of course. But if I cannot, then go to Blödhgarm for instruction; he is as skilled with a  

blade as I am. Practice is the only remedy you need, practice with the proper partners."

Eragon had just opened his mouth to thank her when he felt the presence of a consciousness other than  

Saphira's pressing against his mind, vast and frightening and filled with the most profound melancholy: a  

sadness so great, Eragon's throat tightened and the colors of the world seemed to lose their luster. And,  

in a slow, deep voice, as if speaking was a struggle of almost unbearable proportions, the golden dragon  

Glaedr said:

You must learn ... to see what you are looking at.

Then the presence vanished, leaving behind a black void.

Eragon looked at Arya. She appeared as stricken as he was; she had heard Glaedr's words as well.  

Beyond her, Blödhgarm and the other elves stirred and murmured, while by the edge of the road, Saphira  

craned her neck as she tried to look at the saddlebags tied to her back.

They had all heard, Eragon realized.

Page 71

Together he and Arya rose from the ground and sprinted over to Saphira, who said,He will not answer  

me; wherever he was, he has returned, and he will not listen to anything but his sorrow. Here, see  

....

Together he and Arya rose from the ground and sprinted over to Saphira, who said,He will not answer  

me; wherever he was, he has returned, and he will not listen to anything but his sorrow. Here, see  

....

Eragon, Saphira, and Arya tried to rouse the dragon from his stupor. However, Glaedr steadfastly  

ignored them, taking no more notice of them than a sleeping cave bear might of a few flies buzzing around  

his head.

And yet Eragon could not help but think that Glaedr's indifference was not as complete as it seemed,  

given his comment.

At last the three of them admitted defeat and withdrew to their respective bodies. As Eragon returned to  

himself, Arya said, "Perhaps if we could touch his Eldunarí ...?"

Eragon sheathed Brisingr, then hopped onto Saphira's right foreleg and pulled himself into the saddle  

perched on the crest of her shoulders. He twisted round in his seat and began to work on the buckles of  

the saddlebags.

He had unfastened one of the buckles and was picking at the other when the brazen call of a horn rang  

forth from the head of the Varden, sounding the advance. At the signal, the vast train of men and animals  

lurched forward, their movements hesitant at first, but becoming smoother and more confident with every  

step.

Eragon glanced down at Arya, torn. She solved his dilemma by waving and saying, "Tonight, we will  

speak tonight. Go! Fly with the wind!"

He quickly rebuckled the saddlebag, then slid his legs through the rows of straps on either side of the  

saddle and pulled them tight, so he would not fall off Saphira in midair.

Then Saphira crouched and, with a roar of joy, leaped out over the road. The men below her ducked  

and cringed, and horses bolted as she unfurled her huge wings and flapped, driving herself away from the  

hard, unfriendly ground, up into the smooth expanse of the sky.

Eragon closed his eyes and tilted his face up, glad to finally be leaving Belatona. After spending a week  

in the city with nothing to do but eat and rest-for so Nasuada had insisted-he was eager to resume  

their journey toward Urû'baen.

When Saphira leveled off, hundreds of feet above the peaks and towers of the city, he said,Will Glaedr  

recover, do you think?

He will never be as he was.

No, but I hope that he will find a way to overcome his grief. I need his help, Saphira. There are so  

many things I still don't know. Without him, I have no one else to ask.

She was silent for a while, the only sound that of her wings.We cannot hurry him , she said.He has

Page 72

been hurt in the worst way a dragon or Rider can be. Before he can help you, me, or anyone else,  

he must decide that he wants to continue living. Until he does, our words cannot reach him .

been hurt in the worst way a dragon or Rider can be. Before he can help you, me, or anyone else,  

he must decide that he wants to continue living. Until he does, our words cannot reach him .

he belling of the hounds grew louder behind them, the pack of dogs howling for blood.

Roran tightened his grip on the reins and bent lower over the neck of his galloping charger. The pounding  

of the horse's hooves rolled through him like thunder.

He and his five men-Carn, Mandel, Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund-had stolen fresh horses from the  

stable of a manor house less than a half mile away. The grooms had not taken kindly to the theft. A show  

of swords had been sufficient to overcome their objections, but the grooms must have alerted the manor  

guards as soon as Roran and his companions had departed, for ten of the guards had set out after them,  

led by a pack of hunting dogs.

"There!" he shouted, and pointed toward a narrow strip of birch trees that extended from between two  

nearby hills, no doubt following the path of a stream.

At his word, the men pulled their horses off the well-traveled road and headed in the direction of the  

trees. The rough ground forced them to slow their headlong pace, but only slightly, despite the risk that  

the horses would step in a hole and break a leg or throw a rider. Dangerous as it was, allowing the  

hounds to catch them would be more dangerous still.

Roran dug his spurs into the sides of the horse and shouted "Yah!" as loudly as he could through his  

dust-clogged throat. The gelding leaped forward and, stride by stride, began to gain on Carn.

Roran knew that his horse would soon reach a point where it could no longer produce such bursts of  

speed, no matter how hard he jabbed it with his spurs or whipped it with the ends of his reins. He hated  

to be cruel, and he had no desire to ride the animal to death, but he would not spare the horse if it meant  

the failure of their mission.

As he drew level with Carn, Roran shouted, "Can't you hide our trail with a spell?"

"Don't know how!" Carn replied, barely audible over the rush of wind and the sound of the galloping  

horses. "It's too complicated!"

Roran swore and glanced over his shoulder. The hounds were rounding the last bend in the road. They  

seemed to fly over the ground, their long, lean bodies lengthening and contracting at a violent rate. Even  

at that distance, Roran could make out the red of their tongues, and he fancied he saw a gleam of white

Page 73

fangs.

fangs.

To his right, Roran glimpsed Mandel hunched over his speckled mare, a feral snarl on his face. The  

younger man had impressed Roran with his stamina and fortitude over the past three days. Ever since  

Katrina's father, Sloan, had betrayed the villagers of Carvahall and killed Mandel's father, Byrd, Mandel  

had seemed desperate to prove himself the equal of any man in the village; he had acquitted himself with  

honor in the last two battles between the Varden and the Empire.

A thick branch hurtled toward Roran's head. He ducked, hearing and feeling the tips of dry twigs  

snapping against the top of his helm. A torn leaf tumbled down his face and covered his right eye for a  

moment; then the wind snatched it away.

The gelding's breathing became increasingly labored as they followed the rift deeper into the hills. Roran  

peeked under his arm and saw that the pack of hounds was less than a quarter mile away. Another few  

minutes, and they would surely overtake the horses.

Blast it, he thought. He raked his gaze back and forth across the densely packed trees to his left and the  

grassy hill to his right, searching for something-anything-that could help them lose their pursuers.

He was so fuzzy-headed from exhaustion, he almost missed it.

Twenty yards ahead of him, a crooked deer trail ran down the side of the hill, crossed his path, then  

disappeared into the trees.

"Whoa! ... Whoa!" Roran shouted, leaning back in his stirrups and hauling on the reins. The gelding  

slowed to a trot, though it snorted with protest and tossed its head, trying to get the bit between its teeth.  

"Oh no you don't," Roran growled, and tugged on the reins even harder.

"Hurry!" he called to the rest of the group as he turned his horse and entered the thicket. The air was  

cool under the trees, almost chilly, which was a welcome relief, hot as he was from his exertion. He only  

had a moment to savor the sensation before the gelding pitched forward and began to stumble down the  

side of the bank toward the stream below. Dead leaves crackled under its iron-shod hooves. In order  

not to fall over the horse's neck and head, Roran had to lie almost flat against its back, his legs stuck out  

straight in front of him, knees locked.

When they reached the bottom of the gorge, the gelding clattered across the stony creek, splashing  

wings of water as high as Roran's knees. Roran paused at the far side to see whether the others were still  

with him. They were, riding nose to tail, down through the trees.

Above them, where they had entered the thicket, he could hear the yapping of the dogs.

We're going to have to turn and fight, he realized.

He swore again and spurred the gelding away from the stream, climbing the soft, moss-covered bank as  

he continued along the faintly marked trail.

Not far from the stream was a wall of ferns, and beyond that, a hollow. Roran spotted a fallen tree that

Page 74

he thought might serve as a makeshift barrier if it could be dragged into place.

he thought might serve as a makeshift barrier if it could be dragged into place.

He waved at his men. "Here!"

With a slap of the reins, he drove the gelding through the bracken and into the hollow, then slid out of the  

saddle, though he kept a tight hold on it. As his feet struck the ground, his legs gave out beneath him, and  

he would have fallen if not for the support. He grimaced and pressed his forehead against the shoulder of  

the horse, panting as he waited for the tremors in his legs to subside.

The rest of the group crowded around him, filling the air with the stink of sweat and the jingle of  

harnesses. The horses shuddered, their chests heaving, and yellow foam dripped from the corners of their  

mouths.

"Help me," he said to Baldor, and motioned at the fallen tree. They fit their hands under the thick end of  

the log and heaved it off the ground. Roran gritted his teeth as his back and thighs screamed with pain.  

Riding at full gallop for three days-combined with less than three hours of sleep for every twelve spent  

in the saddle-had left him frighteningly weak.

I might as well be going into battle drunk, sick, and beaten half out of my senses, Roran realized as  

he let go of the log and straightened upright. The thought unnerved him.

The six men positioned themselves in front of the horses, facing the trampled wall of ferns, and drew  

their weapons. Outside the hollow, the hunting cries of the hounds sounded louder than ever, their  

overeager yelps echoing off the trees in a raucous din.

Roran tensed and lifted his hammer higher. Then, interspersed with the barking of the dogs, he heard the  

strange, lilting melody of the ancient language emanating from Carn, and the power contained within the  

phrases caused the back of Roran's neck to prickle with alarm. The spellcaster uttered several lines in a  

short, breathless manner, speaking so quickly, the words melded together into an indistinct babble. As  

soon as he finished, he gestured at Roran and the others and said in a strained whisper, "Get down!"

Without question, Roran dropped to his haunches. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he was  

unable to use magic himself. Of all the skills a warrior could possess, none was more useful; lacking it left  

him at the mercy of those who could reshape the world with nothing more than their will and a word.

The ferns in front of him rustled and shook; then a hound pushed its black-tipped snout through the  

foliage and peered at the hollow, nose twitching. Delwin hissed and raised his sword, as if to behead the  

dog, but Carn made an urgent noise in his throat and waved at him until he lowered his blade.

The dog furrowed its brow, appearing puzzled. It scented the air again, then licked its jowls with its  

engorged, purplish tongue, and withdrew.

As the fronds sprang back over the dog's face, Roran slowly released the breath he had been holding.  

He looked at Carn and raised an eyebrow, hoping for an explanation, but Carn just shook his head and  

placed a finger over his lips.

A few seconds later, two more dogs wiggled their way through the undergrowth to inspect the hollow;  

then, like the first one, they backed out after a short while. Soon the pack began to whine and yip as they  

cast about among the trees, trying to figure out where their prey had gone.

Page 75

As he sat waiting, Roran noticed that his leggings were mottled with several dark blotches along the  

inside of his thighs. He touched one of the discolored areas, and his fingers came away with a film of  

bloody liquid. Each blotch marked the location of a blister. Nor were they his only ones; he could feel  

blisters on his hands-where the reins had chafed the web of skin between his thumbs and  

forefingers-and on his heels, and in other, more uncomfortable places.

As he sat waiting, Roran noticed that his leggings were mottled with several dark blotches along the  

inside of his thighs. He touched one of the discolored areas, and his fingers came away with a film of  

bloody liquid. Each blotch marked the location of a blister. Nor were they his only ones; he could feel  

blisters on his hands-where the reins had chafed the web of skin between his thumbs and  

forefingers-and on his heels, and in other, more uncomfortable places.

Roran decided that when they next stopped to sleep he would have Carn heal their sores. If the magician  

seemed too tired, however, Roran would refrain from having his own blisters healed; he would rather  

endure the pain than allow Carn to expend all of his strength before they arrived at Aroughs, for Roran  

suspected that Carn's skills might very well prove useful in capturing the city.

Thinking of Aroughs and of the siege he was somehow supposed to win caused Roran to press his free  

hand against his breast to check that the packet containing the orders he could not read and the  

commission he doubted he would be able to keep were still safely tucked in his tunic. They were.

After several long, tense minutes, one of the hounds began to bark excitedly somewhere in the trees  

upstream. The other dogs rushed in that direction and resumed the deep-chested baying that meant they  

were in close pursuit of their quarry.

When the clamor had receded, Roran slowly rose to his full height and swept his gaze over the trees and  

bushes. "All clear," he said, keeping his voice subdued.

As the others stood, Hamund-who was tall and shaggy-haired and had deep lines next to his mouth,  

although he was only a year older than Roran-turned on Carn, scowling, and said, "Why couldn't you  

have done that before, instead of letting us go riding willy-nilly over the countryside and almost breaking  

our necks coming down that hill?" He motioned back toward the stream.

Carn responded with an equally angry tone: "Because I hadn't thought of it yet, that's why. Given that I  

just saved you the inconvenience of having a host of small holes poked in your hide, I would think you  

might show a bit of gratitude."

"Is that so? Well, I think that you ought to spend more time working on your spellsbefore we're chased  

halfway to who-knows-where and-"

Fearing that their argument could turn dangerous, Roran stepped between them. "Enough," he said.  

Then he asked Carn, "Will your spell hide us from the guards?"

Carn shook his head. "Men are harder to fool than dogs." He cast a disparaging look at Hamund. "Most  

of them, at least. I can hide us, but I can't hide our trail." And he indicated the crushed and broken ferns,  

as well as the hoofprints gouged into the damp soil. "They'll know we're here. If we leave before they  

catch sight of us, the dogs will draw them off and we'll-"

"Mount up!" Roran ordered.

With an assortment of half-muttered curses and poorly concealed groans, the men climbed back onto  

their steeds. Roran glanced over the hollow one last time to make sure that they had not forgotten

Page 76

anything, then guided his charger to the head of the group and tapped the horse with his spurs.

anything, then guided his charger to the head of the group and tapped the horse with his spurs.

MOONEATER

ragon rolled his shoulders as he walked through the Varden's camp, trying to work out the kink in his  

neck that he had acquired while sparring with Arya and Blödhgarm earlier that afternoon.

As he topped a small hill, which stood like a lone island amid the sea of tents, he rested his hands on his  

hips and paused to take in the view. Before him lay the dark spread of Leona Lake, gleaming in the  

twilight as the crests of the shallow waves reflected the orange torchlight from the camp. The road the  

Varden had been following lay between the tents and the shore: a broad strip of paving stones set with  

mortar that had been constructed, or so Jeod had informed him, long before Galbatorix had overthrown  

the Riders. A quarter mile to the north, a small, squat fishing village sat close against the water; Eragon  

knew its inhabitants were far from happy that an army was camped on their doorstep.

You must learn ... to see what you are looking at.

Since leaving Belatona, Eragon had spent hours pondering Glaedr's advice. He was not certain exactly  

what the dragon had meant by it, as Glaedr had refused to say anything more after delivering his  

enigmatic statement, so Eragon had chosen to interpret his instruction literally. He had striven to trulysee  

everything before him, no matter how small or apparently insignificant, and to understand the meaning of  

that which he beheld.

Try though he might, he felt as if he failed miserably. Wherever he looked, he saw an overwhelming  

amount of detail, but he was convinced there was even more that he was not perceptive enough to  

notice. Worse, he was rarely able to make sense of what hewas aware of, like why there was no smoke  

rising from three of the chimneys in the fishing village.

Despite his sense of futility, the effort had proved helpful in at least one regard: Arya no longer defeated  

him every time they crossed blades. He had watched her with redoubled attention-studying her as  

closely as a deer he was stalking-and as a result, he had won a few of their matches. However, he still  

was not her equal, much less her better. And he did not know what he needed to learn-nor who could  

teach him-in order to become as skilled with a blade as she was.

Perhaps Arya is right, and experience is the only mentor that can help me now, Eragon thought.  

Experience requires time, though, and time is what I have the least of. We'll be at Dras-Leona  

soon, and then Urû'baen. A few months, at the most, and we'll have to face Galbatorix and  

Shruikan .

He sighed and rubbed his face, trying to turn his mind in other, less troubling directions. Always he  

returned to the same set of doubts, worrying at them like a dog with a marrow bone, only with nothing to

Page 77

show for it other than a constant and increasing sense of anxiety.

show for it other than a constant and increasing sense of anxiety.

He had been walking for a quarter hour, stopping and starting in counterpoint to his thoughts, when the  

high-pitched tone of a woman describing something with great enthusiasm interrupted his reverie.  

Curious, he followed the sound until he arrived at a tent set apart from the rest, near the base of a gnarled  

willow tree, the only tree near the lake that the army had not chopped down for firewood.

There, under the ceiling of branches, was the strangest sight he had ever seen.

Twelve Urgals, including their war chief, Nar Garzhvog, sat in a semicircle around a low, flickering  

campfire. Fearsome shadows danced on their faces, emphasizing their heavy brows, broad cheekbones,  

and massive jaws, as well as the ridges on their horns, which sprouted from their foreheads and curved  

back and around the sides of their heads. The Urgals were bare-armed and bare-chested, except for the  

leather cuffs on their wrists and the woven straps they wore slung from shoulder to waist. In addition to  

Garzhvog, three other Kull were present. Their hulking size made the rest of the Urgals-not one of  

whom was under six feet tall-appear childishly small.

Scattered among the Urgals-among andon them-were several dozen werecats in their animal forms.  

Many of the cats sat upright before the fire, utterly still, not even moving their tails, their tufted ears  

pricked forward attentively. Others lay sprawled on the ground, or on the Urgals' laps, or in their arms.  

To Eragon's astonishment, he even spotted one werecat-a slim white female-resting curled atop the  

broad head of a Kull, her right foreleg draped over the edge of his skull and her paw pressed  

possessively against the middle of his brow. Tiny though the werecats were compared to the Urgals, they  

looked equally savage, and Eragon had no doubt whom he would rather face in battle; Urgals he  

understood, whereas werecats were ... unpredictable.

On the other side of the fire, in front of the tent, was the herbalist Angela. She was sitting cross-legged  

on a folded blanket, spinning a pile of carded wool into fine thread using a drop spindle, which she held  

out before her as if to entrance those who were watching. Both werecats and Urgals stared at her  

intently, their eyes never leaving her as she said:

"-but he was too slow, and the raging, red-eyed rabbit ripped out Hord's throat, killing him instantly.  

Then the hare fled into the forest, and out of recorded history. However"-and here Angela leaned  

forward and lowered her voice-"if you travel through those parts, as I have ... sometimes, even to this  

day, you will come across a freshly killed deer or Feldûnost that looks as if it has beennibbled at, like a  

turnip. And all around it, you'll see the prints of an unusually large rabbit. Every now and then, a warrior  

from Kvôth will go missing, only to be found lying dead with his throat torn out ... always with his throat  

torn out."

She resumed her former position. "Terrin was horribly upset by the loss of his friend, of course, and he  

wanted to chase after the hare, but the dwarves still needed his help. So he returned to the stronghold,  

and for three more days and three more nights the defenders held the walls, until their supplies were low  

and every warrior was covered in wounds.

"At last, on the morning of the fourth day, when all seemed hopeless, the clouds parted, and far in the

Page 78

distance, Terrin was amazed to see Mimring flying toward the stronghold at the head of a huge thunder of  

dragons. The sight of the dragons frightened the attackers so much, they threw down their weapons and  

fled into the wilderness." Angela's mouth quirked. "This, as you can imagine, made the dwarves of Kvôth  

rather happy, and there was much rejoicing.

distance, Terrin was amazed to see Mimring flying toward the stronghold at the head of a huge thunder of  

dragons. The sight of the dragons frightened the attackers so much, they threw down their weapons and  

fled into the wilderness." Angela's mouth quirked. "This, as you can imagine, made the dwarves of Kvôth  

rather happy, and there was much rejoicing.

As she fell silent, the werecats began to purr, and the Urgals uttered several low grunts of approval.

"You tell a good story, Uluthrek," Garzhvog said, his voice sounding like the rumble of falling rock.

"Thank you."

"But not as I have heard it told," Eragon commented as he stepped into the light.

Angela's expression brightened. "Well, you can hardly expect the dwarves to admit they were at the  

mercy of a rabbit. Have you been lurking in the shadows this whole time?"

"Only for a minute," he confessed.

"Then you missed the best part of the story, and I'm not about to repeat myself tonight. My throat is too  

dry now for talking at length."

Eragon felt the vibration through the soles of his boots as the Kull and the other Urgals got to their feet,  

much to the displeasure of the werecats resting on them, several of whom uttered yowls of protest as  

they dropped to the ground.

As he gazed at the collection of grotesque horned faces gathered around the fire, Eragon had to  

suppress the urge to grasp the hilt of his sword. Even after having fought, traveled, and hunted alongside  

the Urgals, and even after having sifted through the thoughts of several of them, being in their presence  

still gave him pause. He knew in his mind that they were allies, but his bones and his muscles could not  

forget the visceral terror that had gripped him during the numerous occasions when he had confronted  

their kind in battle.

Garzhvog removed something from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. Extending his thick arm over  

the fire, he handed it to Angela, who set down her spinning to accept the object with cupped hands. It  

was a rough orb of sea-green crystal, which twinkled like crusted snow. She slipped it inside the sleeve  

of her garment, then picked up her drop spindle.

Garzhvog said, "You must come to our camp sometime, Uluthrek, and we will tell you many stories of  

our own. We have a chanter with us. He is good; when you listen to him recite the tale of Nar Tulkhqa's  

victory at Stavarosk, your blood grows hot and you feel like bellowing at the moon and locking horns  

with even the strongest of your foes."

"That would depend on whether you have horns to lock," said Angela. "I would be honored to sit story

Page 79

with you. Perhaps tomorrow evening?"

with you. Perhaps tomorrow evening?"

The Urgals shifted uneasily, and Garzhvog lowered his head and snorted like a bull. "What trickery is  

this, Firesword?" he demanded. "Do you seek to challenge me by insulting us so?" He opened and  

closed his hands with unmistakable menace.

Wary, Eragon said, "I meant no harm, Nar Garzhvog. It was an honest question; I've never heard the  

name of Stavarosk before."

A murmur of surprise spread among the Urgals. "How can this be?" said Garzhvog. "Do not all humans  

know of Stavarosk? Is it not sung of in every hall from the northern wastes to the Beor Mountains as our  

greatest triumph? Surely, if nowhere else, the Varden must speak of it."

Angela sighed and, without looking up from her spinning, said, "You'd best tell them."

In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira watching their exchange, and he knew that she was readying  

herself to fly from their tent to his side if a fight became unavoidable.

Choosing his words with care, he said: "No one has mentioned it to me, but then I have not been with  

the Varden for very long, and-"

"Drajl!" swore Garzhvog. "The lack-horned betrayer does not even have the courage to admit his own  

defeat. He is a coward and liar!"

"Who? Galbatorix?" Eragon asked cautiously.

A number of the werecats hissed at the mention of the king.

Garzhvog nodded. "Aye. When he came to power, he sought to destroy our race forever. He sent a  

vast army into the Spine. His soldiers crushed our villages, burned our bones, and left the earth black and  

bitter behind them. We fought-at first with joy, then with despair, but still we fought. It was the only  

thing we could do. There was nowhere for us to run, nowhere to hide. Who would protect the Urgralgra  

when even the Riders had been brought to their knees?

"We were lucky, though. We had a great war chief to lead us, Nar Tulkhqa. He had once been  

captured by humans, and he had spent many years fighting them, so he knew how you think. Because of  

that, he was able to rally many of our tribes under his banner. Then he lured Galbatorix's army into a  

narrow passage deep within the mountains, and our rams fell upon them from either side. It was a  

slaughter, Firesword. The ground was wet with blood, and the piles of bodies stood higher than my head.  

Even to this day, if you go to Stavarosk, you will feel the bones cracking under your feet, and you will  

find coins and swords and pieces of armor under every patch of moss."

"So it was you!" Eragon exclaimed. "All my life I've heard it said that Galbatorix once lost half his men  

in the Spine, but no one could tell me how or why."

"Morethan half his men, Firesword." Garzhvog rolled his shoulders and made a guttural noise in the back  

of his throat. "And now I see we must work to spread word of it if any are to know of our victory. We  

will track down your chanters, your bards, and we will teach them the songs concerning Nar Tulkhqa,  

and we will make sure that they remember to recite them often and loudly." He nodded once, as if his

Page 80

mind was made up-an impressive gesture considering the ponderous size of his head-then said,  

"Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek." Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.

mind was made up-an impressive gesture considering the ponderous size of his head-then said,  

"Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek." Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.

"What?" he asked, turning to her.

She smiled. "I'm imagining the expression some poor lute player is going to have in a few minutes when  

he looks out his tent and sees twelve Urgals, four of them Kull, standing outside, eager to give him an  

education in Urgal culture. I'll be impressed if we don't hear him scream." She chuckled again.

Similarly amused, Eragon lowered himself to the ground and stirred the coals with the end of a branch. A  

warm, heavy weight settled in his lap, and he looked down to see the white werecat curled up on his legs.  

He raised a hand to pet her, then thought better of it and asked the cat, "May I?"

The werecat flicked her tail but otherwise ignored him.

Hoping that he was not doing the wrong thing, Eragon tentatively began to rub the creature's neck. A  

moment later, a loud, throbbing purr filled the night air.

"She likes you," Angela observed.

For some reason, Eragon felt inordinately pleased. "Who is she? I mean, that is, who are you? What is  

your name?" He cast a quick glance at the werecat, worried that he had offended her.

Angela laughed quietly. "Her name is Shadowhunter. Or rather, that is what her name means in the  

language of the werecats. Properly, she is ..." Here the herbalist uttered a strange coughing, growling  

sound that made the nape of Eragon's neck crawl. "Shadowhunter is mated to Grimrr Halfpaw, so one  

might say that she is queen of the werecats."

The purring increased in volume.

"I see." Eragon looked around at the other werecats. "Where is Solembum?"

"Busy chasing a long-whiskered female who is half his age. He's acting as foolish as a kitten ... but then,  

everyone's entitled to a little foolishness once in a while." Catching the spindle with her left hand, she  

stopped its motion and wound the newly formed thread around the base of the wooden disk. Then she  

gave the spindle a twist to start it spinning again and resumed drafting from the batt of wool in her other  

hand. "You look as if you are full to bursting with questions, Shadeslayer."

"Whenever I meet you, I always end up feeling more confused than before."

"Always? That's rather absolutist of you. Very well, I will attempt to be informative. Ask away."

Skeptical of her apparent openness, Eragon considered what he would like to know. Finally: "A thunder  

of dragons? What did you-"

"Thatis the proper term for a flock of dragons. If ever you had heard one in full flight, you would  

understand. When ten, twelve, or more dragons flew past overhead, the very air would reverberate  

around you, as if you were sitting inside a giant drum. Besides, what else could you call a group of  

dragons? You have your murder of ravens, your convocation of eagles, your gaggle of geese, your raft of

Page 81

ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so on, but what about dragons? Ahunger of  

dragons? That doesn't sound quite right. Nor does referring to them as ablaze or aterror , although I'm  

rather fond ofterror , all things considered: a terror of dragons.... But no, a flock of dragons is called a  

thunder. Which you would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing  

a sword and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language."

ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so on, but what about dragons? Ahunger of  

dragons? That doesn't sound quite right. Nor does referring to them as ablaze or aterror , although I'm  

rather fond ofterror , all things considered: a terror of dragons.... But no, a flock of dragons is called a  

thunder. Which you would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing  

a sword and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language."

He thought for a moment longer, then asked, "And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?"

"It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them."

"What does it mean?"

"Mooneater."

"Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?"

"I ate the moon, of course. How else?"

Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: "Why did Garzhvog give  

you that stone?"

"Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious."

"But what is it?"

"A piece of rock. Didn't you notice?" She clucked with disapproval. "Really, you ought to pay better  

attention to what's going on around you. Otherwise, someone's liable to stick a knife in you when you're  

not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?" She tossed her hair. "Go on, ask  

me another question. I'm rather enjoying this game."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said,"Cheep cheep?"

The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to  

be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon's legs,  

making him wince.

"Well," said Angela, still laughing, "if youmust have answers, that's as good a story as any. Let's see....  

Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles  

and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of  

a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a  

fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn't have minded if he had just killed  

the bird and eaten it-that's what cats are supposed to do, after all-but he was torturing the poor thing:  

pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over." Angela wrinkled her nose  

with distaste. "Itold him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me." She fixed Eragon  

with a stern gaze. "I don'tlike it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I  

wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped  

like a songbird."

Page 82

"Hechirped ?"

"Hechirped ?"

other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week."

"No wonder he hates you."

"What of it? If you don't make a few enemies every now and then, you're a coward-or worse.

Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!"

Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.

Grimacing, Eragon said, "Maybe it would be best to change the subject?"

"Mmm."

Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp.

The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence.  

Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.

RUMORS ANDWRITING

t's late, said Saphira as Eragon sauntered toward his tent, beside which she lay coiled, sparkling like a  

mound of azure coals in the dim light of the torches. She regarded him with a single, heavy-lidded eye.

He crouched by her head and pressed his brow against hers for several moments, hugging her spiky jaw.  

So it is , he said at last.And you need your rest after flying into the wind all day. Sleep, and I'll see  

you in the morning .

She blinked once in acknowledgment.

Inside his tent, Eragon lit a single candle for comfort. Then he pulled off his boots and sat on his cot with  

his legs folded under him. He slowed his breathing and allowed his mind to open and expand outward to  

touch all of the living things around him, from the worms and the insects in the ground to Saphira and the  

warriors of the Varden, and even the few remaining plants nearby, the energy from which was pale and  

hard to see compared with the burning brilliance of even the smallest animal.

For a long while, he sat there, empty of thoughts, aware of a thousand sensations, the sharp and the  

subtle, concentrating on nothing but the steady inflow and outflow of air in his lungs.

Off in the distance, he heard men talking as they stood around a watchfire. The night air carried their  

voices farther than they intended, far enough that his keen ears were able to make out their words. He  

could sense their minds as well, and he could have read their thoughts had he wanted, but instead he  

chose to respect their innermost privacy and merely listen.

A deep-voiced fellow was saying, "-and the way they stare down their noses at you, as if you're the

Page 83

lowest of the low. Half the time they won't even talk to you when you ask them a friendly question. They  

just turn their shoulder and walk away."  

"Aye," said another man. "And their women-as beautiful as statues and about half as inviting."

"That's because you're a right ugly bastard, Svern, that's why."  

"It's not my fault my father had a habit of seducing milkmaids wherever he went. Besides, you're hardly  

one to point fingers; you could give children nightmares with that face of yours."

The deep-voiced warrior grunted; then someone coughed and spat, and Eragon heard the sizzle of

moisture evaporating as it struck a piece of burning wood.  

A third speaker entered the conversation: "I don't like the elves any more than you do, but we need  

them to win this war."

"What if they turn on us afterward, though?" asked the deep-voiced man.  

"Hear, hear," added Svern. "Look what happened at Ceunon and Gil'ead. All his men, all his power,

and Galbatorix still couldn't stop them from swarming over the walls."  

"Maybe he wasn't trying," suggested the third speaker.  

A long pause followed.  

Then the deep-voiced man said, "Now, there's a singularly unpleasant thought.... Still, whether he was

or wasn't, I don't see how we could hold off the elves if they decided to reclaim their old territories.

They're faster and stronger than we are, and unlike us, there's not one of them who can't use magic."  

"Ah, but we have Eragon," Svern countered. "He could drive them back to their forest all by himself, if  

he wanted to."

"Him? Bah! He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn't count on his

loyalty any more than the Urgals'."  

The third man spoke up again: "Have you noticed, he's always freshly shaven, no matter how early in the  

morning we break camp?"

"He must use magic for a razor."  

"Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being tossed around  

nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians kill each other off without  

any interference from us."  

"I don't seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of tongs to  

remove that arrow from your shoulder."  

"Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren't for Galbatorix. And it's  

him and his magic that's caused this whole mess."  

Someone snorted. "True enough, but I'd bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or no, you still

Page 84

would've ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You're too mean to do anything other than fight."

would've ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You're too mean to do anything other than fight."

"Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I'll have you scrubbing pots for a week."

"Well, he did...."

There was another silence, which was broken when the deep-voiced warrior sighed. "We need a way to  

protect ourselves. That's the problem. We're at the mercy of the elves, the magicians-ours and  

theirs-and every other strange creature that roams the land. It's all well and fine for the likes of Eragon,  

but we're not so fortunate. What we need is-"

"What we need," said Svern, "are the Riders. They'd put the world in order."

"Pfft. With what dragons? You can't have Riders without dragons. Besides, we still wouldn't be able to  

defend ourselves, and that's what bothers me. I'm not a child to go hiding behind my mother's skirts, but  

if a Shade were to appear out of the night, there isn't a blasted thing we could do to keep it from tearing

our heads off."

"That reminds me, did you hear about Lord Barst?" asked the third man.

Svern uttered a sound of agreement. "I heard he ate his heart afterward."

"What's this now?" asked the deep-voiced warrior.

"Barst-"

"Barst?"

"You know, the earl with an estate up by Gil'ead-"

"Isn't he the one who drove his horses into the Ramr just to spite-"

"Aye, that's the one. Anyway, so he goes to this village and orders all the men to join Galbatorix's army.

Same story as always. Only, the men refuse, and they attack Barst and his soldiers."

"Brave," said the deep-voiced man. "Stupid, but brave."

"Well, Barst was too clever for them; he had archers posted around the village before he went in. The  

soldiers kill half the men and thrash the rest within an inch of their lives. No surprise there. Then Barst  

takes the leader, the man who started the fight, and he grabs him by the neck, and with his bare hands, he  

pulls his head right off!"

"No."

"Like a chicken. And what's worse, he ordered the man's family burned alive as well."

"Barst must be as strong as an Urgal to tear off a man's head," said Svern.

"Maybe there's a trick to it."

Page 85

"Could it be magic?" asked the deep-voiced man.

"Could it be magic?" asked the deep-voiced man.

"Still sounds like magic to me."

"That's because you see evil magicians lurking in every shadow, you do."

The deep-voiced warrior grunted, but did not speak.

After that, the men dispersed to walk their rounds, and Eragon heard nothing more from them. At any  

other time, their conversation might have disturbed him, but because of his meditation, he remained  

unperturbed throughout, although he made an effort to remember what they said, so that he could  

consider it properly later.

Once his thoughts were in order, and he felt calm and relaxed, Eragon closed off his mind, opened his  

eyes, and slowly unfolded his legs, working the stiffness out of his muscles.

The motion of the candle flame caught his eye, and he stared at it for a minute, enthralled by the  

contortions of the fire.

Then he went over to where he had dropped Saphira's saddlebags earlier and removed the quill, the  

brush, the bottle of ink, and the sheets of parchment that he had begged off Jeod several days before, as  

well as the copy ofDomia abr Wyrda that the old scholar had given him.

Returning to the cot, Eragon placed the heavy book well away from him, so as to minimize the chances  

of spilling ink on it. He laid his shield across his knees, like a tray, and spread the sheets of parchment  

over the curved surface. A sharp, tannic odor filled his nostrils as he unstoppered the bottle and dipped  

the quill into the oak-gall ink.

He touched the nib of the feather against the lip of the bottle, to draw off the excess liquid, then carefully  

made his first stroke. The quill produced a faint scratching sound as he wrote out the runes of his native  

language. When he finished, he compared them to his efforts from the previous night, to see if his  

handwriting had improved-only a small amount-as well as to the runes inDomia abr Wyrda , which  

he was using as his guide.

He went through the alphabet three more times, paying special attention to the shapes that he had the  

most difficulty forming. Then he began to write down his thoughts and observations concerning the day's  

events. The exercise was useful not only because it provided him with a convenient means of practicing  

his letters, but also because it helped him better understand everything he had seen and done over the  

course of the day.

Laborious as it was, he enjoyed the writing, for he found the challenges it presented stimulating. Also, it  

reminded him of Brom, of how the old storyteller had taught him the meaning of each rune, which gave  

Eragon a sense of closeness with his father that otherwise eluded him.

After he had said everything he wished to say, he washed the quill clean, then exchanged it for the brush  

and selected a sheet of parchment that was already half covered with rows of glyphs from the ancient  

language.

Page 86

The elves' mode of writing, the Liduen Kvaedhí, was far harder to reproduce than the runes of his own  

race, owing to the glyphs' intricate, flowing shapes. Nevertheless, he persisted for two reasons: He  

needed to maintain his familiarity with the script. And if he was going to write anything in the ancient  

language, he thought it wiser to do it in a form that most people were unable to understand.

The elves' mode of writing, the Liduen Kvaedhí, was far harder to reproduce than the runes of his own  

race, owing to the glyphs' intricate, flowing shapes. Nevertheless, he persisted for two reasons: He  

needed to maintain his familiarity with the script. And if he was going to write anything in the ancient  

language, he thought it wiser to do it in a form that most people were unable to understand.

He worked on the dictionary for another few hours, whereupon he returned his writing supplies to the  

saddlebags and took out the chest containing Glaedr's heart of hearts. He tried to rouse the old dragon  

from his stupor, as he had so many times before, and as always, he failed. Eragon refused to give up,  

however. Sitting next to the open chest, he read aloud to Glaedr fromDomia abr Wyrda about the  

dwarves' many rites and rituals-few of which Eragon was familiar with-until it was the coldest, darkest  

part of the night.

Then Eragon set aside the book, extinguished the candle, and lay down on the cot to rest. He wandered  

through the fantastic visions of his waking dreams for only a short while; once the first hint of light  

appeared in the east, he rolled upright to begin the whole cycle anew.

AROUGHS

t was midmorning when Roran and his men arrived at the cluster of tents next to the road. The camp  

appeared gray and indistinct through the haze of exhaustion that clouded Roran's vision. A mile to the  

south lay the city of Aroughs, but he was able to make out only the most general features: glacier-white  

walls, yawning entryways containing barred gates, and many thickly built square stone towers.

He clung to the front of the saddle as they trotted into the camp, their horses near to collapsing. A  

scraggly-looking youngster ran up to him and grabbed the bridle of his mare, pulling on it until the animal  

stumbled to a stop.

Roran stared down at the boy, not sure what had just happened, and after a long moment croaked,  

"Bring me Brigman."

Without a word, the boy took off between the tents, kicking up dust with his bare heels.

It seemed to Roran that he sat waiting for over an hour. The mare's uncontrollable panting matched the  

rushing of blood in his ears. When he looked at the ground, it appeared as if it were still moving, receding  

tunnel-like toward a point infinitely far away. Somewhere, spurs clinked. A dozen or so warriors  

gathered nearby, leaning on spears and shields, their faces open displays of curiosity.

From across the camp, a broad-shouldered man in a blue tunic limped toward Roran, using a broken  

spear as a staff. He had a large, full beard, though his upper lip was shaved and it glittered with

Page 87

perspiration-whether from pain or heat Roran could not tell.  

"You're Stronghammer?" he said.  

Roran grunted an affirmative. He released his cramped grip on the saddle, reached inside his tunic, and

perspiration-whether from pain or heat Roran could not tell.  

"You're Stronghammer?" he said.  

Roran grunted an affirmative. He released his cramped grip on the saddle, reached inside his tunic, and

and said you had departed, but I didn't think you would arrive so soon."  

"It wasn't easy," said Roran.  

Brigman's bare upper lip curled. "No, I'm sure it wasn't ... sir." He handed the parchment back. "The

men are yours to command, Stronghammer. We were about to launch an attack on the western gate.

Perhaps you would care to lead the charge?" The question was as pointed as a dagger.  

The world seemed to tilt around Roran, and he gripped the saddle tighter. He was too tired to bandy  

words with anyone and do it well, and he knew it.

"Order them to stand down for the day," he said.  

"Have you lost your wits? How else do you expect us to capture the city? It took us all morning to

prepare the attack, and I'm not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you catch up on your sleep.  

Nasuada expects us to end the siege within a few days, and by Angvard, I'll see it done!"  

In a voice pitched so low that only Brigman could hear, Roran growled, "You'll tell the men to stand

down, or I'll have you strung up by your ankles and whipped for breaking orders. I'm not about to  

approve any sort of attack until I've had a chance to rest and look at the situation."  

"You're a fool, you are. That would-"  

"If you can't hold your tongue and do your duty, I'll thrash you myself-right here and now."

Brigman's nostrils flared. "In your state? You wouldn't stand a chance."  

"You're wrong," said Roran. And he meant it. He was not sure how he might beat Brigman right then,  

but he knew in the deepest fibers of his being that he could.

Brigman seemed to struggle with himself. "Fine," he spat. "It wouldn't be good for the men to see us  

sprawling in the dirt anyway. We'll stay where we are, if that's what you want, but I won't be held  

accountable for the waste of time. Be it on your head, not mine."

"As it always is," said Roran, his throat tight with pain as he swung down from the mare. "Just as you're

responsible for the mess you've made of this siege."  

Brigman's brow darkened, and Roran saw the man's dislike of him curdle and turn to hate. He wished  

that he had chosen a more diplomatic response.

Page 88

"Your tent is this way."

"Your tent is this way."

A soft light diffused through the tent, lifting his spirits. For a moment, he thought he had only fallen asleep  

for a few minutes. Then he realized he felt too bright and alert for that to be the case.

He cursed quietly to himself, angry that he had allowed an entire day to slip through his fingers.

A thin blanket covered him, mostly unneeded in the balmy southern weather, especially since he was  

wearing his boots and clothes underneath. He pulled it off, then tried to sit upright.

A choked groan escaped him as his entire body seemed to stretch and tear. He fell back and lay gasping  

at the fabric above. The initial shock soon subsided, but it left behind a multitude of throbbing  

aches-some worse than others.

It took him several minutes to gather his strength. With a massive effort, he rolled onto his side and  

swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He stopped to catch his breath before attempting the seemingly  

impossible task of standing.

Once he was on his feet, he smiled sourly. It was going to be an interesting day.

The others were already up and waiting for him when he made his way out of the tent. They looked  

worn and haggard; their movements were as stiff as his own. After exchanging greetings, Roran motioned  

toward the bandage on Delwin's forearm, where a tavern keeper had cut him with a paring knife. "Has  

the pain gone down?"

Delwin shrugged. "It's not so bad. I can fight if need be."

"Good."

"What do you intend to do first?" Carn asked.

Roran eyed the rising sun, calculating how much time remained until noon. "Take a walk," he said.

Starting from the center of the camp, Roran led his companions up and down each row of tents,  

inspecting the condition of the troops as well as the state of their equipment. Occasionally, he stopped to  

question a warrior before moving on. For the most part, the men were tired and disheartened, although  

he noticed their mood seemed to improve when they caught sight of him.

Roran's tour ended at the southern edge of the camp, as he had planned. There he and the others  

stopped to gaze at the imposing edifice that was Aroughs.

The city had been built in two tiers. The first was low and spread out and contained the majority of  

buildings, while the second, smaller tier occupied the top of a long, gentle rise, which was the tallest point  

for miles around. A wall encircled both levels of the city. Five gates were visible within the outer wall: two  

of them opened to roads that entered the city-one from the north and one from the east-and the other  

three sat astride canals that flowed southward, into the city. On the other side of Aroughs lay the restless  

sea, where the canals presumably emptied.

At least they don't have a moat, he thought.

Page 89

The north-facing gate was scratched and scarred from a battering ram, and the ground in front of it was  

torn up with what Roran recognized as the tracks of battle. Three catapults, four ballistae of the sort he  

had knowledge of from his time on theDragon Wing , and two ramshackle siege towers were arrayed  

before the outer wall. A handful of men hunkered next to the machines of war, smoking pipes and playing  

dice on patches of leather. The machines appeared pitifully inadequate compared with the monolithic  

mass of the city.

The north-facing gate was scratched and scarred from a battering ram, and the ground in front of it was  

torn up with what Roran recognized as the tracks of battle. Three catapults, four ballistae of the sort he  

had knowledge of from his time on theDragon Wing , and two ramshackle siege towers were arrayed  

before the outer wall. A handful of men hunkered next to the machines of war, smoking pipes and playing  

dice on patches of leather. The machines appeared pitifully inadequate compared with the monolithic  

mass of the city.

"What do you think?" he asked Carn.

The magician shook his head, his drooping eyes even more mournful than usual. "We might as well lay  

siege to a mountain for all the good it'll do."

"Indeed," observed Brigman, walking up to them.

Roran kept his own observations to himself; he did not want the others to know how discouraged he  

was.Nasuada is mad if she believes we can capture Aroughs with only eight hundred men. If I had  

eight thousand, and Eragon and Saphira to boot, then I might be sure of it. But not like this ....

Yet he knew he had to find a way, for Katrina's sake, if nothing else.

Without looking at him, Roran said to Brigman, "Tell me about Aroughs."

Brigman twisted his spear several times, grinding the butt of it into the ground, before he replied:  

"Galbatorix had foresight; he saw to it that the city was fully stocked with food before we cut off the  

roads between here and the rest of the Empire. Water, as you can see, they have no shortage of. Even if  

we diverted the canals, they would still have several springs and wells inside the city. They could  

conceivably hold out until winter, if not longer, although I'd wager they'd be right sick of eating turnips  

before all was said and done. Also, Galbatorix garrisoned Aroughs with a fair number of soldiers-more  

than twice what we have-in addition to their usual contingent."

"How do you know this?"

"An informant. However, he had no experience with military strategy, and he provided us with an overly  

confident assessment of Aroughs's weaknesses."

"Ah."

"He also promised us that he would be able to let a small force of men into the city under the cover of  

dark."

"And?"

"We waited, but he never appeared, and we saw his head mounted over the parapet the following  

morning. It's still there, by the eastern gate."

Page 90

"So it is. Are there other gates besides these five?"

"So it is. Are there other gates besides these five?"

pointed toward the western side of the city-"same as the others."

"Can any of them be breached?"

"Not quickly. By the shore, we haven't room to maneuver properly or withdraw out of range of the  

soldiers' stones and arrows. That leaves us with these gates, and the western one as well. The lay of the  

land is much the same all around the city, except for the shore, so I chose to concentrate our attack on  

the nearest gate."

"What are they made of?"

"Iron and oak. They'll stand for hundreds of years unless we knock them down."

"Are they protected by any spells?"

"I wouldn't know, seeing as how Nasuada didn't see fit to send one of her magicians with us. Halstead

has-"

"Halstead?"

"Lord Halstead, ruler of Aroughs. You must have heard of him."

"No."

A brief pause followed, wherein Roran could sense Brigman's contempt for him growing. Then the man  

continued, "Halstead has a conjurer of his own: a mean, sallow-looking creature we've seen atop the  

walls, muttering into his beard and trying to strike us down with his spells. He seems to be singularly  

incompetent, because he hasn't had much luck, save for two of the men I had on the battering ram,  

whom he managed to set on fire."

Roran exchanged glances with Carn-the magician appeared even more worried than before-but he  

decided it would be better to discuss the matter in private.

"Would it be easier to break through the gates on the canals?" he asked.

"Where would you stand? Look at how they're recessed within the wall, without so much as a step for  

purchase. What's more, there are slits and trapdoors in the roof of the entryway, so they can pour boiling  

oil, drop boulders, or fire crossbows at anyone foolish enough to venture in there."

"The gates can't be solid all the way down, or they would block the water."

"You're right about that. Below the surface is a latticework of wood and metal with holes large enough  

that they don't impede the flow overly much."

"I see. Are the gates kept lowered into the water most of the time, even when Aroughs isn't under  

siege?"

Page 91

"At night for certain, but I believe they were left open during the daylight hours."

"At night for certain, but I believe they were left open during the daylight hours."

Brigman shifted his weight. "Granite, polished smooth, and fit so closely together, you can't even slide a  

knife blade between the blocks. Dwarf work, I'd guess, from before the fall of the Riders. I'd also guess  

that the walls are filled with packed rubble, but I can't say for sure, since we haven't cracked the outer  

sheathing yet. They extend at least twelve feet below ground and probably more, which means we can't  

tunnel under them or weaken them with sapping."

Stepping forward, Brigman pointed at the manors to the north and west. "Most of the nobles have  

retreated into Aroughs, but they left men behind to protect their property. They've given us some trouble,  

attacking our scouts, stealing our horses, that sort of thing. We captured two of the estates early on"-he  

indicated a pair of burnt-out husks a few miles away-"but holding them was more trouble than it was  

worth, so we sacked them and put them to the torch. Unfortunately, we don't have enough men to  

secure the rest."

Baldor spoke then. "Why do the canals feed into Aroughs? It doesn't look as if they're used for  

watering crops."

"You don't need to water here, lad, any more than a northman needs to cart in snow during the winter.  

Staying dry is more a problem than not."

"Then what are they used for?" Roran inquired. "And where do they come from? You can't expect me  

to believe the water is drawn from the Jiet River, so many leagues away."

"Hardly," scoffed Brigman. "There are lakes in the marshes north of us. It's brackish, unwholesome  

water, but the people here are accustomed to it. A single channel carries it from the marshes to a point  

about three miles away. There the channel divides into the three canals you see here, and they run over a  

series of falls, which power the mills that grind flour for the city. The peasants cart their grain to the mills  

at harvesttime, and then the sacks of flour are loaded onto barges and floated down to Aroughs. It's also  

a handy way of moving other goods, like timber and wine, from the manor houses to the city."

Roran rubbed the back of his neck as he continued to examine Aroughs. What Brigman had told him  

intrigued him, but he was not sure how it could help. "Is there anything else of significance in the  

surrounding countryside?" he asked.

"Only a slate mine farther south along the coast."

He grunted, still thinking. "I want to visit the mills," he said. "But first I want to hear a full account of your  

time here, and I want to know how well provisioned we are with everything from arrows to biscuits."

"If you'll follow me ... Stronghammer."

The next hour Roran spent in conference with Brigman and two of his lieutenants, listening and asking  

questions as they recounted each of the assaults they had launched against the city walls, as well as  

cataloging the stocks of supplies left to the warriors under his command.

At least we're not short of weapons, Roran thought as he counted the number of dead. Yet even if  

Nasuada had not set a time limit upon his mission, the men and horses did not have enough food to stay  

camped before Aroughs for more than another week.

Page 92

Many of the facts and figures that Brigman and his lackeys related came from writing on scrolls of  

parchment. Roran strove to conceal the fact that he could not decipher the rows of angular black marks  

by insisting that the men read everything to him, but it irritated him that he was at the mercy of others.  

Nasuada was right , he realized.I have to learn to read, else I cannot tell if someone is lying to me  

when they say that a piece of parchment says one thing or another.... Maybe Carn can teach me  

on our return to the Varden .

Many of the facts and figures that Brigman and his lackeys related came from writing on scrolls of  

parchment. Roran strove to conceal the fact that he could not decipher the rows of angular black marks  

by insisting that the men read everything to him, but it irritated him that he was at the mercy of others.  

Nasuada was right , he realized.I have to learn to read, else I cannot tell if someone is lying to me  

when they say that a piece of parchment says one thing or another.... Maybe Carn can teach me  

on our return to the Varden .

Upon finishing his review, Roran and his five companions rode with Brigman to inspect Aroughs's walls  

and gates from a closer, but still safe, distance. Sitting in a saddle again was incredibly painful for Roran,  

but he bore it without complaint.

As their steeds clattered onto the stone-paved road next to the camp and began to trot toward the city,  

Roran noticed that, on occasion, the horses' hooves produced a peculiar noise when they struck the  

ground. He remembered hearing a similar sound, and being bothered by it, during their final day of  

traveling.

Looking down, he saw that the flat stones that formed the surface of the road seemed to be set within  

tarnished silver, the veins of which formed an irregular, cobweb-like pattern.

Roran called out to Brigman and asked him about it, whereupon Brigman shouted, "The dirt here makes  

for poor mortar, so instead they use lead to hold the stones in place!"

Roran's initial reaction was disbelief, but Brigman appeared serious. He found it astonishing that any  

metal could be so common that people would squander it on building a road.

So they trotted down the lane of stone and lead toward the gleaming city beyond.

They studied Aroughs's defenses with great attentiveness. But their increased proximity revealed nothing  

new and only served to reinforce Roran's impression that the city was nigh on impregnable.

He guided his horse over to Carn's. The magician was staring at Aroughs with a glazed expression, his  

lips moving silently, as if he were talking to himself. Roran waited until he stopped, then quietly asked,  

"Are there any spells on the gates?"

"I think so," Carn replied, equally subdued, "but I'm not sure how many or what their intended purpose  

is. I'll need more time to tease out the answers."

"Why is it so difficult?"

"It's not, really. Most spells are easy to detect, unless someone has made an effort to hide them, and  

even then, the magic usually leaves certain telltale traces if you know what to look for. My concern is that  

one or more of the spells might be traps set to prevent people from meddling with the gates'  

enchantments. If that's so, and I approach them directly, I'll be sure to trigger them, and then who knows  

what will happen? I might dissolve into a puddle before your very eyes, which is a fate I would rather

Page 93

avoid, if I have my way."

avoid, if I have my way."

Carn shook his head. "I don't think it would be wise to leave you unguarded while we're away from  

camp. I'll return after sundown and see what I can do then. Besides, it would help if I were closer to the  

gates, and I don't dare go any nearer now, when I'm in plain sight of the sentinels."

"As you wish."

When Roran was satisfied they had learned everything they could by looking at the city, he had Brigman  

lead them to the nearest set of mills.

They were much as Brigman had described. The water in the canal flowed over three consecutive  

twenty-foot falls. At the base of each fall was a waterwheel, edged with buckets. The water splashed into  

the buckets, driving the machine round and round. The wheels were connected by thick axles to three  

identical buildings that stood stacked one above the other along the terraced bank and which contained  

the massive grindstones needed to produce the flour for Aroughs's population. Though the wheels were  

moving, Roran could tell they were disengaged from the complex arrangement of gears hidden inside the  

buildings, for he did not hear the rumble of the grindstones turning in their places.

He dismounted by the lowest mill and walked up the path between the buildings, eyeing the sluice gates  

that were above the falls and that controlled the amount of water released into them. The gates were  

open, but a deep pool of water still lay beneath each of the three slowly spinning wheels.

He stopped halfway up the hill and planted his feet on the edge of the soft, grassy bank, crossed his  

arms, and tucked his chin against his chest while he pondered how he could possibly capture Aroughs.  

That there was a trick or a strategy that would allow him to crack open the city like a ripe gourd, he was  

confident, but the solution eluded him.

He thought until he was tired of thinking, and then he gave himself over to the creaking of the turning  

axles and the splashing of the falling water.

Soothing as those sounds were, a thorn of unease still rankled him, for the place reminded him of  

Dempton's mill in Therinsford, where he had gone to work the day the Ra'zac had burned down his  

home and tortured his father, mortally wounding him.

Roran tried to ignore the memory, but it stayed with him, twisting in his gut.

If only I had waited another few hours to leave, I could have saved him. Then the more practical  

part of Roran replied:Yes, and the Ra'zac would have killed me before I could have even raised a  

hand. Without Eragon to protect me, I would have been as helpless as a newborn babe .

With a quiet step, Baldor joined him by the edge of the canal. "The others are wondering: have you  

decided on a plan?" he asked.

"I have ideas, but no plan. What of you?"

Baldor crossed his arms as well. "We could wait for Nasuada to send Eragon and Saphira to our aid."

"Bah."

Page 94

For a while, they watched the never-ending motion of the water below them. Then Baldor said, "What if  

you just asked them to surrender? Maybe they'll be so frightened when they hear your name, they'll  

throw open the gates, fall at your feet, and beg for mercy."

For a while, they watched the never-ending motion of the water below them. Then Baldor said, "What if  

you just asked them to surrender? Maybe they'll be so frightened when they hear your name, they'll  

throw open the gates, fall at your feet, and beg for mercy."

"Even if we gain entrance to the city, can we hold it with so few men?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

A pause grew between them; then Baldor said, "How far we have come."

"Aye."

Again, the only sound was that of the water and of the turning wheels. Finally, Baldor said, "The  

snowmelt must not be as great here as it is at home. Otherwise, the wheels would be half underwater  

come springtime."

Roran shook his head. "It doesn't matter how much snow or rain they get. The sluice gates can be used  

to limit the amount of water that runs over the wheels, so they don't turn too fast."

"But once the water rises to the top of the gates?"

"Hopefully, the day's grinding is finished by then, but in any case, you uncouple the gears, raise the  

gates, and ..." Roran trailed off as a series of images flashed through his mind, and his whole body  

flushed with warmth, as if he had drunk an entire tankard of mead in a single gulp.

Could I?he thought wildly.Would it really work, or ... It doesn't matter; we have to try. What else  

can we do?

He strode out to the center of the berm that held back the middlemost pond and grasped the spokes that  

stuck out from the tall wooden screw used to raise and lower the sluice gate. The screw was stiff and  

hard to move, even though he set his shoulder against it and pushed with all his weight.

"Help me," he said to Baldor, who had remained on the bank, watching with puzzled interest.

Baldor carefully made his way to where Roran stood. Together they managed to close the sluice gate.  

Then, refusing to answer any questions, Roran insisted that they do the same with both the uppermost  

and the lowermost gates.

When all three were firmly shut, Roran walked back to Carn, Brigman, and the others and motioned for  

them to climb off their horses and gather around him. He tapped the head of his hammer while he waited,  

suddenly feeling unreasonably impatient.

"Well?" Brigman demanded once they were in place.

Roran looked each of them in the eyes, to make sure that he had their undivided attention, then he said,  

"Right, this is what we're going to do-" And he began to talk, quickly and intensely, for a full half hour,  

explaining everything that had occurred to him in that one, revelatory instant. As he spoke, Mandel began

Page 95

to grin, and though they remained more serious, Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund also appeared excited by  

the audacious nature of the scheme he outlined.

to grin, and though they remained more serious, Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund also appeared excited by  

the audacious nature of the scheme he outlined.

Carn, on the other hand, appeared somewhat doubtful. This Roran had expected, but the magician's  

doubt was slight compared with Brigman's incredulity.

"You're mad!" he exclaimed once Roran had finished. "It'll never succeed."

"You take that back!" said Mandel, and jumped forward, his fists clenched. "Why, Roran's won more  

battles than you've ever fought in, and he did it without all the warriors you've had to order around!"

Brigman snarled, his bare upper lip curling like a snake. "You little whelp! I'll teach you a lesson in  

respect you'll never forget."

Roran pushed Mandel back before the younger man could attack Brigman. "Oi!" growled Roran.  

"Behave yourself." With a surly look, Mandel ceased resisting, but he continued to glower at Brigman,  

who sneered at him in return.

"It's an outlandish plan, to be sure," said Delwin, "but then, your outlandish plans have served us well in  

the past." The other men from Carvahall made sounds of agreement.

Carn nodded and said, "Maybe it will work and maybe it won't. I don't know. In any event, it's certain  

to catch our enemies by surprise, and I have to admit, I'm rather curious to see what will happen.  

Nothing like this has ever been tried before."

Roran smiled slightly. Addressing Brigman, he said, "To continue as before, nowthat would be mad.  

We have only two and a half days to seize Aroughs. Ordinary methods won't suffice, so we must hazard  

theextra ordinary."

"That may be," muttered Brigman, "but this is a ridiculous venture that will kill many a good man, and for  

no reason other than to demonstrate your supposed cleverness."

His smile widening, Roran moved toward Brigman until only a few inches separated them. "You don't  

have to agree with me, Brigman; you only have to do what you're told. Now, will you follow my orders  

or not?"

The air between them grew warm from their breath and from the heat radiating off their skin. Brigman  

gritted his teeth and twisted his spear even more vigorously than before, but then his gaze wavered and  

he backed away. "Blast you," he said. "I'll be your dog for the while, Stronghammer, but there'll be a  

reckoning on this soon enough, just you watch, and then you'll have to answer for your decisions."

As long as we capture Aroughs, thought Roran,I don't care . "Mount up!" he shouted. "We have  

work to do, and little time to do it in! Hurry, hurry, hurry!"

Page 96

DRAS-LEONA

he sun was climbing into the sky, as was Saphira, when from his place on her back, Eragon  

spotted Helgrind on the edge of the northern horizon. He felt a surge of loathing as he beheld the distant  

spike of rock, which rose from the surrounding landscape like a single jagged tooth. So many of his most  

unpleasant memories were associated with Helgrind, he wished he could destroy it and see its bare gray  

spires fall crashing to the ground. Saphira was more indifferent to the dark tower of stone, but he could  

tell that she too disliked being near it.

By the time evening arrived, Helgrind lay behind them, while Dras-Leona lay before them, next to Leona  

Lake, where dozens of ships and boats bobbed at anchor. The low, broad city was as densely built and  

inhospitable as Eragon remembered, with its narrow, crooked streets, the filthy hovels packed close  

together against the yellow mud wall that ringed the center of the city, and behind the wall, the towering  

shape of Dras-Leona's immense cathedral, black and barbed, where the priests of Helgrind conducted  

their gruesome rituals.

A stream of refugees trailed along the road to the north-people fleeing the soon-to-be-besieged city for  

Teirm or Urû'baen, where they might find at least temporary safety from the Varden's inexorable  

advance.

Dras-Leona seemed as foul and evil to Eragon as when he had first visited it, and it aroused in him a lust  

for destruction such as he had not felt at either Feinster or Belatona. Here he wanted to lay waste with  

fire and sword; to lash out with all of the terrible, unnatural energies that were at his disposal; and to  

indulge in every savage urge and leave behind him nothing but a pit of smoking, blood-soaked ashes. For  

the poor and the crippled and the enslaved who lived within the confines of Dras-Leona, he had some  

sympathy. But he was wholly convinced of the city's corruption and believed that the best thing would be  

to raze it and rebuild it without the taint of perversity the religion of Helgrind had infected it with.

As he fantasized about tearing down the cathedral with Saphira's help, it occurred to him to wonder if  

the religion of the priests who practiced self-mutilation had a name. His study of the ancient language had  

taught him to appreciate the importance of names-names were power, names wereunderstanding  

-and until he knew the name of the religion, he would not be able to fully apprehend its true nature.

In the waning light, the Varden settled on a series of cultivated fields just southeast of Dras-Leona,  

where the land rose up to a slight plateau, which would provide them with a modicum of protection  

should the enemy charge their position. The men were weary from marching, but Nasuada put them to  

work fortifying the camp, as well as assembling the mighty engines of war they had brought with them all  

the long way from Surda.

Eragon threw himself into the work with a will. First, he joined a team of men who were flattening the  

fields of wheat and barley, using planks with long loops of rope attached. It would have been faster to  

scythe the grain, either with steel or magic, but the stubble that remained would be dangerous and  

uncomfortable to walk over, much less to sleep upon. As it was, the compacted stalks formed a soft,  

springy surface as fine as any mattress, and one far preferable to the bare ground they were accustomed  

to.

Page 97

Eragon labored alongside the other men for almost an hour, at which point they had cleared enough  

space for the tents of the Varden.

Eragon labored alongside the other men for almost an hour, at which point they had cleared enough  

space for the tents of the Varden.

Saphira helped as well. With her teeth and claws, she gouged deep trenches in the ground and piled the  

removed earth into embankments around the camp, accomplishing more in a few minutes than a hundred  

men could have in a whole day. And, with the fire from her maw and mighty sweeps of her tail, she  

leveled trees, fences, walls, houses, and everything else around the Varden that might give their foes  

cover. In all, she presented a picture of fearsome devastation sufficient to inspire trepidation in even the  

bravest of souls.

It was late at night when the Varden finally finished their preparations and Nasuada ordered the men,  

dwarves, and Urgals to bed.

Retiring to his tent, Eragon meditated until his mind was clear, as had become his habit. Instead of  

practicing his penmanship afterward, he spent the next few hours reviewing the spells he thought he might  

need the following day, as well as inventing new ones to address the specific challenges Dras-Leona  

presented.

When he felt ready for the battle to come, he abandoned himself to his waking dreams, which were  

more varied and energetic than usual, for despite his meditation, the prospect of the approaching action  

stirred his blood and would not allow him to relax. As always, the waiting and the uncertainty were the  

most difficult parts for him to bear, and he wished he were already in the midst of the fray, where he  

would have no time to worry about what might happen.

Saphira was equally restless. From her, he caught snatches of dreams that involved biting and tearing,  

and he could tell that she was looking forward to the fierce pleasure of battle. Her mood influenced his to  

a certain degree, but not enough to make him entirely forget his apprehension.

All too soon, morning arrived, and the Varden assembled before the exposed outskirts of Dras-Leona.  

The army was an imposing sight, but Eragon's admiration was tempered by his observation of the  

warriors' notched swords, dented helms, and battered shields, as well as the poorly repaired rents in  

their padded tunics and mail hauberks. If they succeeded in capturing Dras-Leona, they would be able to  

replace some of their equipment-as they had at Belatona, and before that, Feinster-but there was no  

replacing the men who bore them.

The longer this drags on, he said to Saphira,the easier it will be for Galbatorix to defeat us when  

we arrive at Urû'baen .

Then we must not delay, she replied.

Eragon sat astride her, next to Nasuada, who was garbed in full armor and mounted upon her fiery black  

charger, Battle-storm. Arrayed around them were his twelve elven guards, as well as an equal number of  

Nasuada's guards, the Nighthawks, increased from her normal allotment of six for the duration of the  

battle. The elves were on foot-for they refused to ride any steeds but those they had raised and trained  

themselves-while all of the Nighthawks were mounted, including the Urgals. Ten yards to the right were

Page 98

King Orrin and his hand-picked retinue of warriors, each of whom had a colorful plume attached to the  

crest of his helm. Narheim, the commander of the dwarves, and Garzhvog were both with their  

respective troops.

King Orrin and his hand-picked retinue of warriors, each of whom had a colorful plume attached to the  

crest of his helm. Narheim, the commander of the dwarves, and Garzhvog were both with their  

respective troops.

Nasuada and King Orrin drew to a halt before they passed among the ramshackle buildings. At their  

signal, two heralds-one carrying the Varden's standard, the other Surda's-rode forth up the narrow  

street that ran through the maze of hovels to Dras-Leona's southern gate.

Eragon frowned as he watched the heralds advance. The city seemed unnaturally empty and quiet. No  

one was visible in the whole of Dras-Leona, not even upon the battlements of the thick yellow wall,  

where hundreds of Galbatorix's soldiers ought to be stationed.

The air smells wrong, said Saphira, and she growled ever so slightly, drawing Nasuada's attention.

At the base of the wall, the Varden's herald called forth in a voice that carried all the way back to  

Eragon and Saphira: "Hail! In the name of Lady Nasuada of the Varden and King Orrin of Surda, as well  

as all free peoples of Alagaësia, we bid you open your gates so we may deliver a message of import unto  

your lord and master, Marcus Tábor. By it, he may hope to profit greatly, as may every man, woman,  

and child within Dras-Leona."

From behind the wall, a man who could not be seen replied: "These gates shall not open. State your  

message where you stand."

"Speak you for Lord Tábor?"

"I do."

"Then we charge you to remind him that discussions of statesmanship are more properly pursued in the  

privacy of one's own chambers rather than in the open, where any might hear."

"I take no orders from you, lackey! Deliver your message-and quickly, too!-ere I lose patience and  

fill you with arrows."

Eragon was impressed; the herald did not appear flustered or cowed by the threat but continued without  

hesitation. "As you wish. Our liegelords offer peace and friendship to Lord Tábor and all the people of  

Dras-Leona. We have no argument with you, only with Galbatorix, and we would not fight you if we had  

the choice. Have we not a common cause? Many of us once lived in the Empire, and we left only  

because Galbatorix's cruel reign drove us from our lands. We are your kin, in blood and in spirit. Join  

forces with us, and we may yet free ourselves of the usurper who now sits in Urû'baen.

"Should you accept our offer, our liegelords do guarantee the safety of Lord Tábor and his family, as  

well as whoever else may now be in the service of the Empire, although none will be allowed to maintain  

their position if they have given oaths that cannot be broken. And if your oaths will not let you aid us, then  

at least do not hinder us. Raise your gates and lay down your swords, and we promise you will come to  

no harm. But try to bar us, and we shall sweep you aside like so much chaff, for none can withstand the  

might of our army, nor that of Eragon Shadeslayer and the dragon Saphira."

Page 99

At the sound of her name, Saphira raised her head and loosed a terrifying roar.

At the sound of her name, Saphira raised her head and loosed a terrifying roar.

The cloaked man threw back his head and uttered a peal of laughter that crashed and boomed with  

thunderous force. Below him, the heralds struggled to control their mounts as the horses reared and tried  

to bolt.

Eragon's stomach sank, and he gripped the hilt of Brisingr, ready to draw it at a moment's notice.

"None can withstand your might?" said the man, his voice echoing off the buildings. "You have an overly  

high opinion of yourselves, I think." And with a gigantic bellow, the glittering red mass of Thorn leaped  

from the streets below onto the roof of a house, piercing the wooden shingles with his talons. The dragon  

spread his huge, claw-tipped wings, opened his crimson maw, and raked the sky with a sheet of rippling  

flame.

In a mocking voice, Murtagh-for itwas Murtagh, Eragon realized-added, "Dash yourselves against  

the walls all you want; you will never take Dras-Leona, not so long as Thorn and I are here to defend it.  

Send your finest warriors and magicians to fight us, and they will die, each and every one. That I promise.  

There isn't a man among you who can best us. Not even you ... Brother. Run back to your hiding  

places before it is too late, and pray that Galbatorix does not venture forth to deal with you himself.  

Otherwise, death and sorrow will be your only reward."

A TOSS OF THEBONES

ir, sir! The gate's opening!"

Roran looked up from the map he was studying as one of the camp sentinels burst into the tent,  

red-faced and panting.

"Which gate?" Roran asked, a deadly calm settling over him. "Be precise." He put aside the rod he had  

been using to measure distances.

"The one closest to us, sir ... on the road, not the canal."

Pulling his hammer out from under his belt, Roran left the tent and ran through the camp to its southern  

edge. There he trained his gaze on Aroughs. To his dismay, he saw several hundred horsemen pouring  

out of the city, their brightly colored pennants snapping in the wind as they assembled in a broad  

formation before the black maw of the open gateway.

Page 100

They'll cut us to pieces, Roran thought, despairing. Only a hundred fifty or so of his men remained in  

the camp, and many were wounded and unable to fight. All the rest were at the mills he had visited the  

previous day, or at the slate mine farther down the coast, or along the banks of the westernmost canal,  

searching for the barges that were needed if his plan was to succeed. None of the warriors could be  

recalled in time to fend off the horsemen.

They'll cut us to pieces, Roran thought, despairing. Only a hundred fifty or so of his men remained in  

the camp, and many were wounded and unable to fight. All the rest were at the mills he had visited the  

previous day, or at the slate mine farther down the coast, or along the banks of the westernmost canal,  

searching for the barges that were needed if his plan was to succeed. None of the warriors could be  

recalled in time to fend off the horsemen.

The first of those assumptions, it seemed, had most definitely proven to be a mistake. Whether the  

defenders of Aroughs were aware of his ruse, he was not entirely sure, but he thought it likely, given the  

rather limited number of horsemen gathering in front of the city. If the soldiers or their commanders had  

anticipated facing the full strength of Roran's company, he would have expected them to field twice as  

many troops. In either event, he still had to figure out a way to stave off their attack and save his men  

from being slaughtered.

Baldor, Carn, and Brigman ran up, weapons in hand. As Carn hastily donned a mail shirt, Baldor said,  

"What do we do?"

"There's nothing wecan do," said Brigman. "You've doomed this whole expedition with your  

foolishness, Stronghammer. We have to flee-now-before those cursed riders are upon us."

Roran spat on the ground. "Retreat? We'll not retreat. The men can't escape on foot, and even if they  

could, I won't abandon our wounded."

"Don't you understand? We've lost here. If we stay, we'll be killed-or worse, taken prisoner!"

"Leave it, Brigman! I'm not about to turn tail and run!"

"Why not? So you don't have to admit you failed? Because you hope to salvage something of your  

honor in one final, pointless battle? Is that it? Can't you see that you'll only be causing the Varden even  

greater harm?"

By the base of the city, the horsemen raised their swords and spears over their heads and-with a  

chorus of whoops and shouts that were audible even over the distance-dug their spurs into their steeds  

and began to thunder across the sloping plain toward the Varden's encampment.

Brigman resumed his tirade: "I won't let you squander our lives merely to assuage your pride. Stay if you  

must, but-"

"Quiet!" Roran bellowed. "Keep your muzzle shut, or I'll shut it for you! Baldor, watch him. If he does  

anything you don't like, let him feel the point of your sword." Brigman swelled with anger, but he held his  

tongue as Baldor raised his sword and aimed it at Brigman's breast.

Roran guessed that he had maybe five minutes to decide upon a course of action. Five minutes in which  

so much hung in the balance.

He tried to imagine how they could kill or maim enough of the horsemen to drive them away, but almost

Page 101

immediately he discounted the possibility. There was nowhere to herd the onrushing cavalry where his  

men might have the advantage. The land was too flat, too empty, for any such maneuvers.

immediately he discounted the possibility. There was nowhere to herd the onrushing cavalry where his  

men might have the advantage. The land was too flat, too empty, for any such maneuvers.

He glanced over at Carn. "Can you conjure up an image of Saphira and have her roar and breathe fire,  

as if she were really here?"

The spellcaster's thin cheeks drained of color. He shook his head, his expression panicky. "Maybe. I  

don't know, I've never tried before. I'd be creating an image of her from memory. It might not even look  

like a living creature." He nodded toward the line of galloping horsemen. "They'd know something was  

wrong."

Roran dug his nails into his palm. Four minutes remained, if that.

"It might be worth a try," he muttered. "We just need to distract them, confuse them...." He glanced at  

the sky, hoping to see a curtain of rain sweeping toward the camp, but alas, a pair of attenuated clouds  

drifting high above was the only formation visible.Confusion, uncertainty, doubt ... What is it people  

fear? The unknown, the things they don't understand, that's what .

In an instant, Roran thought of a half-dozen schemes to undermine the confidence of their foes, each  

more outlandish than the last, until he struck upon an idea that was so simple and so daring, it seemed  

perfect. Besides, unlike the others, it appealed to his ego, for it required the participation of only one  

other person: Carn.

"Order the men to hide in their tents!" he shouted, already beginning to move. "And tell them to keep  

quiet; I don't want to hear so much as a peep from them unless we're attacked!"

Going to the nearest tent, which was empty, Roran jammed his hammer back under his belt and grabbed  

a dirty woolen blanket from one of the piles of bedding on the ground. Then he ran to a cookfire and  

scooped up a wide, stumplike section of log the warriors had been using as a stool.

With the log under one arm and the blanket thrown over the opposite shoulder, Roran sprinted out of  

the camp toward a slight mound perhaps a hundred feet in front of the tents. "Someone get me a set of  

knucklebones and a horn of mead!" he called. "And fetch me the table my maps are on. Now, blast it,  

now!"

Behind him, he heard a tumult of footsteps and jangling equipment as the men rushed to conceal  

themselves inside their tents. An eerie silence fell over the camp a few seconds later, save for the noise  

created by the men collecting the items he had requested.

Roran did not waste time looking back. At the crest of the mound, he set the log upright on its thicker  

end and twisted it back and forth several times to ensure that it would not wobble beneath him. When he  

was satisfied it was stable, he sat on it and looked out over the sloping field toward the charging  

horsemen.

Three minutes or less remained until they would arrive. Through the wood beneath him, he could feel the  

drumming of the horses' hooves-the sensation growing stronger every second.

"Where are the knucklebones and mead?!" he shouted without taking his eyes off the cavalry.

Page 102

He smoothed his beard with a quick pass of his hand and tugged on the hem of his tunic. Fear made him  

wish that he were wearing his mail hauberk, but the colder, more cunning part of his mind reasoned that it  

would cause his enemies even greater apprehension to see him sitting there with no armor, as if he were  

totally at his ease. The same part of his mind also convinced him to leave his hammer tucked in his belt,  

so it would appear he felt safe in the presence of the soldiers.

He smoothed his beard with a quick pass of his hand and tugged on the hem of his tunic. Fear made him  

wish that he were wearing his mail hauberk, but the colder, more cunning part of his mind reasoned that it  

would cause his enemies even greater apprehension to see him sitting there with no armor, as if he were  

totally at his ease. The same part of his mind also convinced him to leave his hammer tucked in his belt,  

so it would appear he felt safe in the presence of the soldiers.

"Go on, get out of here," he said. Carn turned to leave, but Roran caught him by the arm. "Can you  

make the air shimmer on either side of me, as it does above a fire on a cold winter's day?"

Carn's eyes narrowed. "Possibly, but what good-"

"Just do it if you can. Now go, hide yourself!"

As the lanky magician sprinted back toward the camp, Roran shook the knucklebones in the cup, then  

poured them out onto the table and began to play by himself, tossing the bones into the air-first one,  

then two, then three, and so forth-and catching them on the back of his hand. His father, Garrow, had  

often amused himself in a like manner while smoking his pipe and sitting in a rickety old chair on the  

porch of their house during the long summer evenings of Palancar Valley. Sometimes Roran had played  

with him, and when he did, he usually lost, but mostly Garrow had preferred to compete against himself.

Though his heart was thumping hard and fast and his palms were slick with sweat, Roran strove to  

maintain a calm demeanor. If his gambit was to have the slightest chance of success, he had to comport  

himself with an air of unbreakable confidence, regardless of his actual emotions.

He kept his gaze focused on the knucklebones and refused to look up even as the horsemen drew closer  

and closer. The sound of the galloping animals swelled until he became convinced that they were going to  

ride right over him.

What a strange way to die, he thought, and smiled grimly. Then he thought of Katrina and of their  

unborn child, and he took comfort in the knowledge that, should he die, his bloodline would continue. It  

was not immortality such as Eragon possessed, but it was an immortality of a sort, and it would have to  

suffice.

At the last moment, when the cavalry was only a few yards away from the table, someone shouted,  

"Whoa! Whoa there! Rein in your horses. I say, rein in your horses!" And, with a clatter of buckles and  

creaking leather, the champing line of animals reluctantly slowed to a halt.

And still, Roran kept his eyes angled downward.

He sipped the pungent mead, then tossed the bones again and caught two of them on the back of his  

hand, where they lay rocking on the ridges of his tendons.

The aroma of freshly overturned soil wafted over him, warm and comforting, along with the distinctly less  

pleasant smell of lathered horseflesh.

Page 103

"Ho there, my fine fellow!" said the same man who had ordered the soldiers to halt. "Ho there, I say!  

Who are you to sit here this splendid morning, drinking and enjoying a merry game of chance, as if you  

hadn't a care in the world? Do we not merit the courtesy of being met with drawn swords? Who are you,  

I say?"

"Ho there, my fine fellow!" said the same man who had ordered the soldiers to halt. "Ho there, I say!  

Who are you to sit here this splendid morning, drinking and enjoying a merry game of chance, as if you  

hadn't a care in the world? Do we not merit the courtesy of being met with drawn swords? Who are you,  

I say?"

"I'm nobody'sfine fellow , and certainly not yours," Roran said, making no effort to conceal his dislike  

at being addressed in such a familiar manner. "Who are you, I might ask, to interrupt my game so  

rudely?"

The long, striped feathers mounted atop the man's helm bobbed and fluttered as he looked Roran over,  

as if Roran were an unfamiliar creature he had encountered while hunting. "Tharos the Quick is my name,  

Captain of the Guard. Rude as you are, I must tell you, it would grieve me mightily to kill a man as bold  

as yourself without knowing his name." As if to emphasize his words, Tharos lowered the spear he held  

until it was pointing at Roran.

Three rows of riders were clustered close behind Tharos. Among their numbers, Roran spied a slim,  

hook-nosed man with the emaciated face and arms-which were bare to the shoulders-that Roran had  

come to associate with the spellcasters of the Varden. Very suddenly, he found himself hoping that Carn  

had succeeded in making the air shimmer. However, he dared not turn his head to look.

"Stronghammer is my name," he said. With a single deft movement, he gathered up the knucklebones,  

tossed them skyward, and caught three on his hand. "Roran Stronghammer, and Eragon Shadeslayer is  

my cousin. You might have heard mention of him, if not of me."

A rustle of unease spread among the line of horsemen, and Roran thought he saw Tharos's eyes widen  

for an instant. "An impressive claim, that, but how can we be sure of its veracity? Any man might say he  

is another if it served his purpose."

Roran drew his hammer and slammed it down on the table with a muffledthump . Then, ignoring the  

soldiers, he resumed his game. He uttered a noise of disgust as two of the bones fell from the back of his  

hand, costing him the round.

"Ah," said Tharos, and coughed, clearing his throat. "You have a most illustrious reputation,  

Stronghammer, although some argue that it has been exaggerated beyond all reason. Is it true, for  

example, that you single-handedly felled nigh on three hundred men in the village of Deldarad in Surda?"

"I never learned what the place was called, but if Deldarad it was, then yes, I slew many a soldier there.  

It was only a hundred ninety-three, however, and I was well guarded by my own men while I fought."

"Only a hundred ninety-three?" Tharos said in a wondering tone. "You are too modest, Stronghammer.  

Such a feat might earn a man a place in many a song and story."

Roran shrugged and lifted the horn to his mouth, feigning the action of swallowing, for he could not  

afford to have his mind clouded by the potent dwarf brew. "I fight to win, not to lose.... Let me offer you  

a drink, as one warrior to another," he said, and extended the horn toward Tharos.

The short warrior hesitated, and his eyes darted toward the spellcaster behind him for a second. Then he

Page 104

wet his lips and said, "Perhaps I will at that." Dismounting his charger, Tharos handed his spear to one of  

the other soldiers, pulled off his gauntlets, and walked over to the table, where he cautiously accepted the  

horn from Roran.

wet his lips and said, "Perhaps I will at that." Dismounting his charger, Tharos handed his spear to one of  

the other soldiers, pulled off his gauntlets, and walked over to the table, where he cautiously accepted the  

horn from Roran.

"It's not to your liking?" Roran asked, amused.

"I confess, these mountain drinks are too harsh for my tongue," Tharos said, returning the horn to Roran.  

"I much prefer the wines of our fields; they are warm and mellow and less likely to strip a man of his  

senses."

" 'Tis sweet as mother's milk to me," Roran lied. "I drink it morning, noon, and night."

Donning his gloves once again, Tharos returned to the side of his horse, hauled himself into the saddle,  

and took back his spear from the soldier who had been holding it for him. He directed another glance  

toward the hook-nosed spellcaster behind him, whose complexion, Roran noticed, had acquired a  

deathly cast in the brief span since Tharos had set foot on the ground. Tharos must have noticed the  

change in his magician as well, for his own expression became strained.

"My thanks for your hospitality, Roran Stronghammer," he said, raising his voice so that his entire troop  

could hear. "Mayhap I will soon have the honor of entertaining you within the walls of Aroughs. If so, I  

promise to serve you the finest wines from my family's estate, and perhaps with them I will be able to  

wean you off such barbaric milk as you have there. I think you will find our wine has much to recommend  

it. We let it age in oaken casks for months or sometimes even years. It would be a pity if all that work  

were wasted and the casks were knocked open and the wine were allowed to run out into the streets  

and paint them red with the blood of our grapes."

"That would indeed be a shame," Roran replied, "but sometimes you cannot avoid spilling a bit of wine  

when cleaning your table." Holding the horn out to one side, he tipped it over and poured what little  

mead remained onto the grass below.

Tharos was utterly still for a moment-even the feathers on his helm were motionless-then, with an  

angry snarl, he yanked his horse around and shouted at his men, "Form up! Form up, I say.... Yah!"  

And with that final yell, he spurred his horse away from Roran, and the rest of the soldiers followed,  

urging their steeds to a gallop as they retraced their steps to Aroughs.

Roran maintained his pretense of arrogance and indifference until the soldiers were well away, then he  

slowly released his breath and rested his elbows on his knees. His hands were trembling slightly.

It worked, he thought, amazed.

He heard men running toward him from the camp, and he looked over his shoulder to see Baldor and  

Carn approaching, accompanied by at least fifty of the warriors who had been hiding within the tents.

"You did it!" exclaimed Baldor as they drew near. "You did it! I can't believe it!" He laughed and  

slapped Roran on the shoulder hard enough to knock him against the table.

The other men crowded around him, also laughing, as well as praising him with extravagant phrases,  

boasting that under his leadership they would capture Aroughs without so much as a single casualty, and

Page 105

belittling the courage and character of the city's inhabitants. Someone shoved a warm, half-full wineskin  

into his hand, which he stared at with unexpected loathing, then passed to the man directly to his left.

belittling the courage and character of the city's inhabitants. Someone shoved a warm, half-full wineskin  

into his hand, which he stared at with unexpected loathing, then passed to the man directly to his left.

"What?" Carn leaned closer, and Roran repeated his question, whereupon the magician smiled and  

nodded vigorously. "Aye. I managed to make the air shimmer as you wanted."

"And did you attack their enchanter? When they left, he looked as if he was about to faint."

Carn's smile broadened. "It was his own doing. He kept trying to break the illusion he thought I had  

created-to pierce the veil of shimmering air so he could see what lay behind-but there was nothing to  

break, nothing to pierce, so he expended all his strength in vain."

Then Roran chuckled, and his chuckle grew into a long, full-bodied laugh that rose above the excited  

clamor and rolled out over the fields in the direction of Aroughs.

For several minutes, he allowed himself to bask in the admiration of his men, until he heard a loud  

warning cry from one of the sentries stationed at the edge of the camp.

"Move aside! Let me see!" said Roran, and sprang to his feet. The warriors complied, and he beheld a  

lone man off to the west-whom he recognized as one of the party he had sent to search the banks of the  

canals-riding hard over the fields, heading toward the camp. "Have him come here," instructed Roran,  

and a lanky, red-haired swordsman ran off to intercept the rider.

While they waited for the man to arrive, Roran picked up the knucklebones and dropped them, one by  

one, into the leather cup. The bones made a satisfying clatter as they landed.

As soon as the warrior was within hailing distance, Roran called out, "Ho there! Is all well? Were you  

attacked?"

To Roran's annoyance, the man remained silent until he was only a few yards away, whereupon he  

jumped off his mount and presented himself before Roran, standing as stiff and straight as a sun-starved  

pine, and, in a loud voice, exclaimed, "Captain, sir!" Upon closer inspection, Roran realized that the man  

was actually more of a boy-that, in fact, he was the same scraggly youth who had grabbed his reins  

when he had first ridden into the camp. The realization did nothing to sate Roran's frustrated curiosity,  

though.

"Well, what is it? I haven't got all day."

"Sir! Hamund sent me to tell you that we found all the barges we need and that he's building the sleds to  

transport them across to the other canal."

Roran nodded. "Good. Does he need any more help to get them there in time?"

"Sir, no sir!"

"And is that all?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Page 106

"You don't have to keep calling mesir . Once is enough. Understood?"

"You don't have to keep calling mesir . Once is enough. Understood?"

Roran suppressed a smile. "You've done well. Get yourself something to eat and then ride out to the  

mine and report back to me. I want to know what they've accomplished so far."

"Yes si-Sorry, sir-That is, I didn't ... I'll be going at once, Captain." Two spots of crimson appeared  

on the youth's cheeks as he stammered. He ducked his head in a quick bow, then hurried back to his  

steed and trotted off toward the tents.

The visit left Roran in a more serious mood, for it reminded him that, as fortunate as they were to have  

won a reprieve from the soldiers' blades, there was much that still needed doing, and any of the tasks  

that lay before them might cost them the siege if handled badly.

To the warriors at large, he said, "Back to the camp with the lot of you! I want two rows of trenches  

dug around the tents by nightfall; those yellow-bellied soldiers might change their minds and decide to  

attack anyway, and I want to be prepared." A few of the men groaned at the mention of digging  

trenches, but the rest appeared to accept the order with good humor.

In a low voice, Carn said, "You don't want to tire them out too much before tomorrow."

"I know," Roran replied, also in a soft tone. "But the camp needs fortifying, and it'll help keep them from  

brooding. Besides, no matter how worn out they may be tomorrow, battle will give them new strength. It  

always does."

The day passed quickly for Roran when he was concentrating on some immediate problem or occupied  

with intense physical exertion, and slowly whenever his mind was free to ponder their situation. His men  

worked valiantly-by saving them from the soldiers, he had won their loyalty and devotion in a way that  

words never could-but it seemed ever more obvious to him that, despite their efforts, they would not be  

able to finish the preparations in the brief span of hours that remained.

All through the late morning, afternoon, and early evening, a sense of sick hopelessness grew within  

Roran, and he cursed himself for deciding upon such a complicated and ambitious plan.

I should have known from the start that we didn't have the time for this, he thought. But it was too  

late to try some other scheme. The only option left was to strive their utmost and hope that, somehow, it  

would be enough to wrest victory from the mistakes of his incompetence.

When dusk arrived, a faint spark of optimism leavened his pessimism, for all of a sudden, the  

preparations began to come together with unexpected speed. And a few hours later, when it was fully  

dark and the stars shone bright overhead, he found himself standing by the mills along with almost seven  

hundred of his men, having completed all of the arrangements needed if they were to capture Aroughs  

before the end of the following day.

Roran uttered a short laugh of relief, pride, and incredulousness as he gazed upon the object of their  

toils.

Then he congratulated the warriors around him and bade them return to their tents. "Rest now, while you  

can. We attack at dawn!"

Page 107

And the men cheered, despite their evident exhaustion.

And the men cheered, despite their evident exhaustion.

hat night, Roran's sleep was shallow and troubled. It was impossible for him to entirely relax,  

knowing the importance of the upcoming battle and that he might very well be wounded during the  

fighting, as he often had been before. Those two thoughts caused a line of vibrating tension to form  

between his head and the base of his spine, a line that pulled him out of his dark, weird dreams at regular  

intervals.

As a result, he woke easily when a soft, dullthud sounded outside his tent.

He opened his eyes and stared at the panel of fabric above his head. The interior of the tent was barely  

visible, and only because of the faint line of orange torchlight that seeped through the gap between the  

flaps at the entrance. The air felt cold and dead against his skin, as if he were buried in a cave deep  

underground. Whatever the time, it was late, very late. Even the animals of the night would have returned  

to their lairs and gone to sleep. No one ought to be up, save the sentinels, and the sentinels were  

stationed nowhere near his tent.

Roran kept his breathing as slow and shallow as he could while he listened for any other noises. The  

loudest thing he heard was the beating of his own heart, which grew stronger and faster as the line of  

tension within him thrummed like a plucked lute string.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Then, just when he began to think there was no cause for alarm and the hammering in his veins began to  

slow, a shadow fell across the front of the tent, blocking the light from the torches beyond.

Roran's pulse tripled, his heart pounding as hard as if he were running up the side of a mountain.  

Whoever was there could not have come to rouse him for the assault on Aroughs, nor to bring him some  

piece of intelligence, for they would not have hesitated to call his name and barge inside.

A black-gloved hand-only a shade darker than the surrounding murk-slid between the entrance flaps  

and groped for the tie that held them closed.

Roran opened his mouth to raise the alarm, then changed his mind. It would be foolish to waste the  

advantage of surprise. Besides, if the intruder knew he had been spotted, he might panic, and panic could  

make him even more dangerous.

With his right hand, Roran carefully pulled his dagger from under the rolled-up cloak he used as a pillow  

and hid the weapon by his knee, beneath a fold in the blanket. At the same time, he grasped the edge of  

the blankets with his other hand.

Page 108

A rim of golden light outlined the shape of the intruder as he slipped into the tent. Roran saw that the  

man was wearing a padded leather jerkin, but no plate or mail armor. Then the flap fell shut, and  

darkness enveloped them again.

A rim of golden light outlined the shape of the intruder as he slipped into the tent. Roran saw that the  

man was wearing a padded leather jerkin, but no plate or mail armor. Then the flap fell shut, and  

darkness enveloped them again.

Roran felt as if he was going to pass out from lack of air as he continued to restrict his breathing so that it  

would appear he was still asleep.

When the intruder was halfway to the cot, Roran tore his blankets off, threw them over the man, and,  

with a wild yell, leaped toward him, drawing back the dagger to stab him in the gut.

"Wait!" cried the man. Surprised, Roran stayed his hand, and the two of them crashed to the ground  

together. "Friend! I'm a friend!"

A half second later, Roran gasped as he felt two hard blows to his left kidney. The pain nearly  

incapacitated him, but he forced himself to roll away from the man, trying to put some distance between  

them.

Roran pushed himself to his feet, then he again charged at his attacker, who was still struggling to free  

himself from the blanket.

"Wait, I'm your friend!" cried the man, but Roran was not about to trust him a second time. It was well  

he did not, for as he slashed at the intruder, the man trapped Roran's right arm and dagger with a twirl of  

the blankets, then slashed at Roran with a knife he had produced from his jerkin. There was a faint  

tugging sensation across Roran's chest, but it was so slight, he paid it no mind.

Roran bellowed and yanked on the blanket as hard as he could, pulling the man off his feet and throwing  

him against one side of the tent, which collapsed on top of them, trapping them under the heavy wool.  

Roran shook the twisted blanket off his arm, then crawled toward the man, feeling his way through the  

darkness.

The hard sole of a boot struck Roran's left hand, and the tips of his fingers went numb.

Lunging forward, Roran caught the man by an ankle as he was trying to turn to face him head-on. The  

man kicked like a rabbit and broke Roran's grip, but Roran grabbed his ankle again and squeezed it  

through the thin leather, digging his fingers into the tendon at the back of the heel until the man roared in  

pain.

Before he could recover, Roran clawed his way up the man's body and pinned his knife hand to the  

ground. Roran tried to drive his dagger into the man's side, but he was too slow; his opponent found his  

wrist and seized it with a grip of iron.

"Who are you?" Roran growled.

"I'm your friend," the man said, his breath warm in Roran's face. It smelled like wine and mulled cider.  

Then he kneed Roran in the ribs three times in quick succession.

Roran bashed his forehead against the assassin's nose, breaking it with a loudsnap . The man snarled  

and thrashed underneath him, but Roran refused to let him go.

Page 109

"You're ... no friend of mine," said Roran, grunting as he bore down on his right arm and slowly pushed  

the dagger toward the man's side. As they strained against one another, Roran was vaguely aware of  

people shouting outside the fallen tent.

"You're ... no friend of mine," said Roran, grunting as he bore down on his right arm and slowly pushed  

the dagger toward the man's side. As they strained against one another, Roran was vaguely aware of  

people shouting outside the fallen tent.

Through the hilt of the dagger, Roran felt the birdlike flutters of the man's heart as it cut itself to pieces  

on the razor-sharp blade. Twice more the man shuddered and jerked, then ceased resisting and simply  

lay there, panting.

Roran continued to hold him as the life drained out of him, their embrace as intimate as any lovers'.  

Though the man had tried to kill him, and though Roran knew nothing about him besides that fact, he  

could not help but feel a sense of terrible closeness to him. Here was another human being-another  

living, thinking creature-whose life was ending because of what he had done.

"Who are you?" he whispered. "Who sent you?"

"I ... I almost killed you," said the man, sounding perversely satisfied. Then he uttered a long, hollow  

sigh, his body went limp, and he was no more.

Roran let his head fall forward against the man's chest and gasped for air, shaking from head to toe as  

the shock of the attack racked his limbs.

People began to pull at the fabric resting on top of him. "Get it off me!" Roran shouted, and lashed out  

with his left arm, unable to bear any longer the oppressive weight of the wool, and the darkness, and the  

cramped space, and the stifling air.

A rent appeared in the panel above him as someone cut through the wool. Warm, flickering torchlight  

poured through the opening.

Frantic to escape his confinement, Roran lurched to his feet, grabbed at the edges of the slit, and  

dragged himself out of the collapsed tent. He staggered into the light, wearing nothing but his breeches,  

and looked round in confusion.

Baldor was standing there, as were Carn, Delwin, Mandel, and ten other warriors, all of whom held  

swords and axes at the ready. None of the men were fully dressed, save for two, whom Roran  

recognized as sentinels posted on the night watch.

"Gods," someone exclaimed, and Roran turned to see one of the warriors peeling back the side of the  

ruined tent to expose the corpse of the assassin.

The dead man was of an unimposing size, with long, shaggy hair gathered in a ponytail and a leather  

patch mounted over his left eye. His nose was crooked and squashed flat-broken by Roran-and a  

mask of blood covered the lower part of his shaved face. More blood caked his chest and side and the  

ground beneath him. It appeared almost too much to have come from a single person.

"Roran," said Baldor. Roran continued to stare at the assassin, unable to tear his gaze away. "Roran,"  

Baldor said again, but louder. "Roran, listen to me. Are you hurt? What happened? ... Roran!"

Page 110

The concern in Baldor's voice finally caught Roran's attention. "What?" he asked.

The concern in Baldor's voice finally caught Roran's attention. "What?" he asked.

Why would he think that?Puzzled, Roran looked down at himself. The hair on his torso was matted  

with gore from top to bottom, while streaks of blood covered his arms and stained the upper part of his  

breeches.

"I'm fine," he said, though he had difficulty forming the words. "Has anyone else been attacked?"

In response, Delwin and Hamund moved apart, revealing a slumped body. It was the youth who had  

been running messages for him earlier.

"Ah!" groaned Roran, and sorrow filled him. "What was he doing wandering about?"

One of the warriors stepped forward. "I shared a tent with him, Captain. He always had to step out to  

relieve himself at night, 'cause he drank so much tea before turning in. His mother told him it would keep  

him from getting sick.... He was a good sort, Captain. He didn't deserve to be cut down from behind by  

some sneaking coward."

"No, he didn't," Roran murmured.If he hadn't been there, I would be dead now . He motioned

toward the assassin. "Are there any more of these killers on the loose?"

The men stirred, glancing at each other; then Baldor said, "I don't think so."

"Have you checked?"

"No."

"Well then check! But try not to wake up everyone else; they need their sleep. And see to it that guards

are stationed at the tents of all the commanders from now on." ... Should have thought of that before.  

Roran stayed where he was, feeling dull and stupid as Baldor issued a series of quick orders, and

everyone but Carn, Delwin, and Hamund dispersed. Four of the warriors picked up the crumpled  

remains of the boy and carried him away to bury, while the rest set out to search the camp.

Going over to the assassin, Hamund nudged the man's knife with the tip of his boot. "You must have

scared those soldiers more than we thought this morning."

"Must have."

Roran shivered. He was cold all over, especially his hands and feet, which were like ice. Carn noticed  

and fetched him a blanket. "Here," said Carn, and wrapped it around Roran's shoulders. "Come sit by  

one of the watchfires. I'll have some water heated so you can clean yourself. All right?"

Roran nodded, not trusting his tongue to work.

Carn started to lead him away, but before they had gone more than a few feet, the magician abruptly  

halted, forcing Roran to stop as well. "Delwin, Hamund," said Carn, "bring me a cot, something to sit on,  

a jug of mead, and several bandages as fast as you can.Now , if you please."

Page 111

Startled, the two men sprang into action.

Startled, the two men sprang into action.

His expression grim, Carn pointed at Roran's chest. "If you're not wounded, then what'sthat , pray  

tell?"

Roran looked where Carn was pointing and saw, hidden amid the hair and the gore on his breast, a long,  

deep cut that started in the middle of his right chest muscle, ran across his sternum, and ended just below  

his left nipple. At its widest, the gash hung open over a quarter of an inch, and it resembled nothing so  

much as a lipless mouth stretched wide in a huge, ghastly grin. The most disturbing feature of the cut,  

however, was the complete lack of blood; not so much as a single drop oozed out of the incision. Roran  

could clearly see the thin layer of yellow fat underneath his skin and, below it, the dark red muscle of his  

chest, which was the same color as a slice of raw venison.

Accustomed as he was to the horrific damage that swords, spears, and other weapons could wreak on  

flesh and bone, Roran still found the sight unnerving. He had suffered numerous injuries in the course of  

fighting the Empire-most notably when one of the Ra'zac had bitten his right shoulder during their  

capture of Katrina in Carvahall-but never before had he received such a large or uncanny wound.

"Does it hurt?" Carn asked.

Roran shook his head without looking up. "No." His throat tightened, and his heart-which was still  

racing from the fight-redoubled in speed, pounding so fast that one beat could not be distinguished from  

the next.Was the knife poisoned? he wondered.

"Roran, you have to relax," said Carn. "I think I can heal you, but you're only going to make this more  

difficult if you pass out." Taking him by the shoulder, he guided Roran back to the cot that Hamund had  

just dragged out of a tent, and Roran obediently sat.

"How am I supposed to relax?" he asked with a short, brittle laugh.

"Breathe deeply and imagine you're sinking into the ground each time you exhale. Trust me; it'll work."

Roran did as he was told, but the moment he released his third breath, his knotted muscles began to  

unclench and blood sprayed from the cut, splashing Carn on the face. The magician recoiled and uttered  

an oath. Fresh blood spilled down Roran's stomach, hot against his bare skin.

"Now it hurts," he said, gritting his teeth.

"Oi!" shouted Carn, and waved at Delwin, who was running toward them, his arms full of bandages and  

other items. As the villager deposited the mound of objects on one end of the cot, Carn grabbed a wad  

of lint and pressed it against Roran's wound, stopping the bleeding for the moment. "Lie down," he  

ordered.

Roran complied, and Hamund brought over a stool for Carn, who seated himself, keeping pressure on  

the lint the whole while. Extending his free hand, Carn snapped his fingers and said, "Open the mead and  

give it to me."

Once Delwin passed him the jug, Carn looked directly at Roran and said, "I have to clean out the cut

Page 112

before I can seal it with magic. Do you understand?"  

Roran nodded. "Give me something to bite."  

He heard the sound of buckles and straps being undone, then either Delwin or Hamund placed a thick

before I can seal it with magic. Do you understand?"  

Roran nodded. "Give me something to bite."  

He heard the sound of buckles and straps being undone, then either Delwin or Hamund placed a thick

could past the obstruction in his mouth.  

Before Roran had time to react, Carn plucked the lint off his chest and, in the same motion, poured  

mead across his wound, washing the hair, gore, and other accumulated filth out of the incision. As the  

mead struck, Roran uttered a strangled groan and arched his back, scrabbling at the sides of the cot.

"There, all done," said Carn, and put aside the jug.

Roran stared up at the stars, every muscle in his body quivering, and tried to ignore the pain as Carn  

placed his hands over the wound and began to murmur phrases in the ancient language.  

After a few seconds, although it seemed more like minutes to Roran, he felt an almost unbearable itch

deep within his chest as Carn repaired the damage the assassin's knife had caused. The itch crawled  

upward, toward the surface of his skin, and where it passed, the pain vanished. Still, the sensation was so  

unpleasant, it made him want to scratch at himself until he tore his flesh.

When it was over, Carn sighed and slumped over, holding his head in his hands.  

Forcing his rebellious limbs to do as he wished, Roran swung his legs over the edge of the cot and sat  

upright. He ran a hand over his chest. Aside from the hair, it was perfectly smooth. Whole. Unblemished.

Exactly as it had been before the one-eyed man had snuck into his tent.  

Magic.  

Off to the side, Delwin and Hamund stood staring. They appeared a bit wide-eyed, though he doubted

anyone else would have noticed.

"Take yourselves to bed," he said, and waved. "We'll be leaving in a few hours, and I need you to be  

alert."  

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Delwin asked.  

"Yes, yes," he lied. "Thank you for your help, but go now. How am I supposed to rest with the two of

you hovering over me like mother hens?"

After they had departed, Roran rubbed his face and then sat looking at his trembling, bloodstained  

hands. He felt wrung out. Empty. As if he had done an entire week's worth of work in just a few minutes.  

"Will you still be able to fight?" he asked Carn.  

The magician shrugged. "Not so well as before.... It was a price that had to be paid, though. We can't

go into battle without you to lead us."  

Roran did not bother to argue. "You should get some rest. Dawn isn't far off."

Page 113

"What of you?"

"What of you?"

"Aren't you going to lie down?"

"No." Without meaning to, he scratched at his chest. He stopped himself when he realized what he was  

doing. "I couldn't sleep before, and now ..."

"I understand." Carn slowly rose from the stool. "I'll be in my tent if you need me."

Roran watched him stumble heavy-footed into the darkness. When he was no longer visible, Roran  

closed his eyes and thought of Katrina, in an attempt to calm himself. Summoning what little remained of  

his strength, he went over to his collapsed tent and dug through it until he located his clothes, weapons,  

armor, and a waterskin. The whole while, he studiously avoided looking at the body of the assassin,  

though he sometimes caught a glimpse as he moved about the pool of tangled cloth.

Finally, Roran knelt and, with eyes averted, yanked his dagger out of the corpse. The blade came free  

with the slithery sound of metal scraping against bone. He gave the dagger a hard shake, to remove any  

loose blood, and heard the splatter of several droplets striking the ground.

In the cold silence of the night, Roran slowly prepared himself for battle. Then he sought out  

Baldor-who assured him that no one else had gotten past the sentinels-and walked the perimeter of  

the camp, reviewing every aspect of their upcoming assault on Aroughs. Afterward, he found half a cold  

chicken left uneaten from dinner and sat gnawing on it and gazing at the stars.

Yet, no matter what he did, his mind returned again and again to the sight of the young man lying dead  

outside his tent.Who is it who decides that one man should live and another should die? My life  

wasn't worth any more than his, but he's the one who's buried, while I get to enjoy at least a few  

more hours above the ground. Is it chance, random and cruel, or is there some purpose or pattern  

to all this, even if it lies beyond our ken?

A FLOURMADE OFFLAME

ow do you like having a sister?" Roran asked Baldor as they rode side by side toward the  

nearest set of mills in the gray half-light that precedes dawn.

"There's not much to like, is there? I mean, there's not muchof her yet, if you take my meaning. She's as  

small as a kitten." Baldor tugged on his reins as his horse tried to veer toward a patch of particularly lush  

grass next to the trail. "It's strange to have another sibling-brotheror sister-after so long."

Roran nodded. Twisting in the saddle, he glanced back over his shoulder, checking to make sure that the  

column of six hundred and fifty men who were following them on foot were keeping pace. At the mills,

Page 114

Roran dismounted and tethered his horse to a hitching post before the lowest of the three buildings. One  

warrior stayed behind to escort the animals back to camp.

Roran dismounted and tethered his horse to a hitching post before the lowest of the three buildings. One  

warrior stayed behind to escort the animals back to camp.

The barges were more like crude rafts than the flat-bottomed boats the villagers had ridden down the  

coast from Narda to Teirm, for which Roran was grateful, because it meant that they did not have  

pointed prows. This had made it relatively easy to fasten the four barges end to end with boards, nails,  

and ropes, thus creating a single rigid structure almost five hundred feet long.

The slabs of cut slate that the men had, at Roran's direction, hauled in wagons from the mine lay piled at  

the front of the lead barge, as well as along the sides of both the first and second barges. On top of the  

slate, they had heaped sacks of flour-which they had found stored within the mills-until they had built a  

wall level with their waists. Where the slate ended on the second barge, the wall continued on, composed  

entirely of the sacks: two deep and five high.

The immense weight of the slate and the densely packed flour, combined with that of the barges  

themselves, served to transform the entire floating structure into a massive, waterborne battering ram,  

which Roran hoped would be capable of plowing through the gate at the far end of the canal as if it were  

made of so many rotted sticks. Even if the gate was enchanted-though Carn did not believe it  

was-Roran didn't think any one magician, save Galbatorix, would be strong enough to negate the  

forward momentum of the barges once they began to move downstream.

Also, the mounds of stone and flour would provide a measure of protection from spears, arrows, and  

other projectiles.

Roran carefully made his way across the shifting decks to the head of the barges. He wedged his spear  

and his shield against a pile of slate, then turned to watch as the warriors filed into the corridor between  

the walls.

Every man who boarded pushed the heavily laden barges deeper and deeper into the water, until they  

rode only a few inches above the surface.

Carn, Baldor, Hamund, Delwin, and Mandel joined Roran where he stood. They had all, by unspoken  

consent, elected to take for themselves the most dangerous position on the floating ram. If the Varden  

were to force their way into Aroughs, it would require a high degree of luck and skill, and none of them  

were willing to trust the attempt to anyone else.

Toward the rear of the barges, Roran glimpsed Brigman standing among the men he had once  

commanded. After Brigman's near insubordination the previous day, Roran had stripped him of all  

remaining authority and confined him to his tent. However, Brigman had begged to be allowed to join the  

final attack on Aroughs, and Roran had reluctantly agreed; Brigman was handy with a blade, and every  

sword would make a difference in the upcoming fight.

Roran still wondered if he had made the right decision. He was fairly confident that the men were now  

loyal to him, not to Brigman, but Brigman had been their captain for many months, and such bonds were  

not easily forgotten. Even if Brigman did not try to cause trouble in the ranks, he had proved willing and  

able to ignore orders, at least when they came from Roran.

Page 115

If he gives me any reason to distrust him, I'll strike him down on the spot, Roran thought. But the  

resolution was a futile one. If Brigman did turn on him, it would most likely be in the midst of such  

confusion that Roran would not even notice until it was too late.

If he gives me any reason to distrust him, I'll strike him down on the spot, Roran thought. But the  

resolution was a futile one. If Brigman did turn on him, it would most likely be in the midst of such  

confusion that Roran would not even notice until it was too late.

Two men stood upon the berm at the very top of the hill-the berm that slowed and held back the flow  

of water down the canal from the marshes to the north. Twenty feet below them lay the first waterwheel  

and the pool beneath it. At the front of that pool was the second berm, whereon stood two more men.  

Another twenty feet below them was the second waterwheel and the second deep, still pool. At the far  

end of the pool was the final berm and the final pair of men. And at the base of the final berm was the  

third and last waterwheel. From it, the current then flowed smoothly over the land until it arrived at  

Aroughs.

Built into the berms were the three sluice gates Roran had insisted upon closing, with Baldor's help,  

during his first visit to the mills. Over the course of the past two days, teams of men wielding shovels and  

pickaxes had dived under the rising water and cut away at the berms from the backsides until the layers  

of packed earth were nearly ready to give way. Then they had driven long, stout beams into the dirt on  

either side of the sluice gates.

The men on the middle and topmost berms now grasped those beams-which protruded several feet  

from the embankments-and began to work them back and forth with a steady rhythm. In accordance  

with their plan, the duo stationed on the lowest berm waited several moments before they, too, joined in  

the effort.

Roran gripped a flour sack as he watched. If their timing was off by even a few seconds, disaster would  

ensue.

For almost a minute, nothing happened.

Then, with an ominous rumble, the topmost sluice gate was pried free. The berm bulged outward, the  

earth cracking and crumbling, and a huge tongue of muddy water poured over the waterwheel below,  

spinning it faster than it was ever intended to turn.

As the berm collapsed, the men standing on top of it jumped to shore, landing with only inches to spare.

Spray shot up thirty feet or more as the tongue of water plunged into the smooth black pool underneath  

the waterwheel. The impact sent a frothing wave several feet high rushing toward the next berm.

Seeing it coming, the middlemost pair of warriors abandoned their posts, also leaping for the safety of  

solid ground.

It was well they did. When the wave struck, needle-thin jets erupted around the frame of the next sluice  

gate, which then flew out of its setting as if a dragon had kicked it, and the churning contents of the pool  

swept away what remained of the berm.

The raging torrent crashed against the second waterwheel with even more force than it had the previous  

one. The timbers groaned and creaked under the onslaught, and for the first time, it occurred to Roran  

that one or more of the wheels might break loose. If that happened, it would pose a serious danger to his  

men, as well as to the barges, and could very well end the attack on Aroughs before it had even begun.

Page 116

"Cut us loose!" he shouted.

"Cut us loose!" he shouted.

The heavily laden barges inched forward, gaining speed far slower than Roran would have liked.

Even as the avalanche of water bore down upon them, the two men standing on the lowest berm  

continued to pull on the beams embedded within the weakened rampart. Less than a second before the  

avalanche washed over them, the berm shuddered and sagged, and the men threw themselves off of it.

The water punched a hole in the earthen dam as easily as if it were made of sodden bread and slammed  

into the final waterwheel. Wood shattered-the sound as loud and sharp as breaking ice-and the wheel  

canted outward several degrees, but to Roran's relief, it held. Then, with a thunderous roar, the pillar of  

water dashed itself against the base of the terraced hill with an explosion of mist.

A gust of cold wind slapped Roran in the face, more than two hundred yards downstream.

"Faster!" he shouted to the men poling the barge, as a turbulent mass of water emerged from within the  

folds of mist and hurtled down the canal.

The flood overtook them with incredible speed. When it collided with the back of the four conjoined  

barges, the entire craft jolted forward, throwing Roran and the warriors toward the stern and knocking a  

number of them off their feet. Some sacks of flour dropped into the canal or rolled inward, against the  

men.

As the surging water lifted the rearmost barge several feet above the rest, the nearly  

five-hundred-foot-long vessel began to slue sideways. If the trend continued, Roran knew they would  

soon become wedged between the banks of the canal, and that, moments later, the force of the current  

would tear the barges apart.

"Keep us straight!" he bellowed, pushing himself off the sacks of flour he had fallen on. "Don't let us  

turn!"

At the sound of his voice, the warriors scrambled to push the lumbering vessel away from the sloping  

banks and toward the center of the canal. Springing atop the piles of slate at the prow, Roran shouted  

directions, and together they successfully steered the barges down the curving channel.

"We did it!" Baldor exclaimed, a stupid grin on his face.

"Don't crow yet," Roran warned. "We still have a ways to go."

The eastern sky had turned straw yellow by the time they were level with their camp, a mile from  

Aroughs. At the speed they were moving, they would reach the city before the sun peeked over the  

horizon, and the gray shadows that covered the land would help shroud them from the lookouts stationed  

on the walls and towers.

Although the leading edge of the water had already outstripped them, the barges were still gathering  

speed, as the city lay below the mills and there was not a single hill or hummock between to slow their  

progress.

Page 117

"Listen," said Roran, cupping his hands around his mouth and raising his voice so that all the men could  

hear. "We may fall into the water when we hit the outer gate, so be prepared to swim. Until we can get  

onto dry land, we'll make easy targets. Once we're ashore, we have but one goal: to make our way up  

to the inner wall before they think to close the gates there, because if they do, we'll never capture  

Aroughs. If we can get past that second wall, it should be a simple matter to find Lord Halstead and  

force his surrender. Failing that, we'll secure the fortifications at the center of the city, then move  

outward, street by street, until all of Aroughs is under our control.

"Listen," said Roran, cupping his hands around his mouth and raising his voice so that all the men could  

hear. "We may fall into the water when we hit the outer gate, so be prepared to swim. Until we can get  

onto dry land, we'll make easy targets. Once we're ashore, we have but one goal: to make our way up  

to the inner wall before they think to close the gates there, because if they do, we'll never capture  

Aroughs. If we can get past that second wall, it should be a simple matter to find Lord Halstead and  

force his surrender. Failing that, we'll secure the fortifications at the center of the city, then move  

outward, street by street, until all of Aroughs is under our control.

"Today we strike a mighty blow for the Varden. Today we win honor and glory such as most men  

dream about. Today ... today we grave our mark onto the face of history. What we accomplish in the  

next few hours, the bards will sing about for a hundred years to come. Think of your friends. Think of  

your families, of your parents, your wives, your children. Fight well, for we fight for them. We fight for  

freedom!"

The men roared in response.

Roran let them work themselves into a frenzy; then he lifted a hand and said, "Shields!" And, as one, the  

men crouched and lifted their shields, covering themselves and their companions so that it looked as if the  

middle of the makeshift battering ram were clad in scale armor made to fit the limb of a giant.

Satisfied, Roran hopped down from the pile of slate and looked at Carn, Baldor, and the four other men  

who had traveled with him from Belatona. The youngest, Mandel, appeared apprehensive, but Roran  

knew his nerves would hold.

"Ready?" he asked, and they each answered in the affirmative.

Then Roran laughed, and when Baldor pressed him for an explanation, he said, "If only my father could  

see me now!"

And Baldor laughed as well.

Roran kept a keen eye on the main swell of the water. Once it entered the city, the soldiers might notice  

that something was amiss and raise the alarm. He wanted them to raise the alarm, but not for that reason,  

and so, when it appeared the swell was about five minutes away from Aroughs, he motioned to Carn and  

said, "Send the signal."

The magician nodded and hunched over, his lips moving as they formed the strange shapes of the ancient  

language. After a few moments, he straightened and said, "It is done."

Roran looked off to the west. There, on the field before Aroughs, stood the Varden's catapults,  

ballistae, and siege towers. The siege towers remained motionless, but the other engines of war stirred  

into action, casting their darts and stones in high, arcing paths toward the pristine white walls of the city.  

And he knew that fifty of his men on the far side of the city were even then blowing trumpets, yelling war  

cries, firing flaming arrows, and doing everything they could to draw the attention of the defending  

soldiers and make it appear as if a far larger force were attempting to storm the city.

Page 118

A deep calm settled over Roran.

A deep calm settled over Roran.

Men were about to die.

He might be one of them.

Knowing this gave him a clarity of thought, and every trace of exhaustion vanished, along with the faint  

tremor that had plagued him since the attempt on his life just hours before. Nothing was so invigorating as  

fighting-not food, not laughter, not working with his hands, not even love-and though he hated it, he  

could not deny the power of its attraction. He had never wanted to be a warrior, but a warrior he had  

become, and he was determined to best all who came before him.

Squatting, Roran peered between two sharp-edged slabs of slate at the rapidly approaching gate that  

barred their path. To the surface of the water and somewhat below, for the water had risen, the gate was  

made of solid oak planks, stained dark with age and moisture. Beneath the surface, he knew there was a  

grid of iron and wood, much like a portcullis, through which the water was free to pass. The upper part  

would be the most difficult to breach, but he guessed that long periods of immersion had weakened the  

grid below, and if part of it could be torn away, breaking through the oak boards above would be far  

easier. Thus, he had ordered two stout logs attached to the underside of the lead barge. Since these were  

submerged, they would strike the lower half of the gate even as the prow rammed into the upper.

It was a clever plan, but he had no idea if it would really work.

"Steady," he whispered more to himself than anyone else as the gate drew near.

A few of the warriors near the rear of the craft continued to steer the barges with their poles, but the rest  

remained hidden beneath the lapped carapace of shields.

The mouth of the archway that led to the gate loomed large before them, like the entrance to a cave. As  

the tip of the vessel slid underneath the shadowed archway, Roran saw the face of a soldier, as round  

and white as a full moon, appear over the edge of the wall, more than thirty feet above, and peer down at  

the barges with an expression of horrified astonishment.

The barges were moving so fast by then, Roran only had time to utter a single pungent curse before the  

current swept them into the cool darkness of the passageway, and the vaulted ceiling cut off his view of  

the soldier.

The barges struck the gate.

The force of the impact threw Roran forward against the wall of slate he squatted behind. His head  

bounced off the stone, and though he wore a helm and arming cap, his ears rang. The deck shuddered  

and reared, and even through the noise in his ears, he heard wood cracking and breaking, and the shriek  

of twisting metal.

One of the slate slabs slipped backward and fell onto him, bruising his arms and shoulders. He grabbed  

the slab by the edges and, with a burst of furious strength, threw it overboard, where it shattered against  

the side of the passageway.

Page 119

In the gloom that surrounded them, it was difficult to see what was happening; all was shifting confusion  

and echoing clamor. Water poured over his feet, and he realized that the barge was awash, though  

whether it would sink, he could not tell.

In the gloom that surrounded them, it was difficult to see what was happening; all was shifting confusion  

and echoing clamor. Water poured over his feet, and he realized that the barge was awash, though  

whether it would sink, he could not tell.

He staggered as the barge lurched forward half a foot, nearly knocking him over. The gate had caved  

inward somewhat, but it was still holding firm. In time, the continued pressure of the water might push the  

barge through the gate, but he could not wait for nature to take its course.

As someone pressed the smooth haft of an ax into his outstretched hand, six glowing rectangles  

appeared in the ceiling as covers were drawn back from murder holes. The rectangles flickered, and  

crossbow bolts hissed down upon the barges, adding loudthumps to the tumult wherever they struck  

wood.

Somewhere a man screamed.

"Carn!" shouted Roran. "Do something!"

Leaving the magician to his devices, Roran started to crawl up the heaving deck and over the piles of  

slate toward the prow of the barge. And the barge lurched forward several more inches. Another  

deafening groan emanated from the center of the gate, and light shone through cracks in the oaken  

planks.

A quarrel skipped off the slate next to Roran's right hand, leaving a smear of iron on the stone.

He redoubled his speed.

Just as he reached the very front of the barge, a piercing, grating, tearing sound forced him to clap his  

hands over his ears and pull back.

A heavy wave washed over him, blinding him for a moment. Blinking to clear his vision, he saw that part  

of the gate had collapsed into the canal; there was now enough space for the barge to gain access to the  

city. Above the prow of the vessel, however, jagged spars of wood stuck out from the remnants of the  

gate at the same height as a man's chest, neck, or head.

Without hesitation, Roran rolled backward and dropped behind the breastwork of slate. "Heads down!"  

he roared, covering himself with his shield.

The barges glided forward, out of the hail of deadly crossbow bolts and into an enormous stone room lit  

by torches mounted on the walls.

At the far end of the room, the water in the canal flowed through another lowered gate, this one a  

portcullis from top to bottom. Through the latticework of wood and metal, Roran could see buildings  

within the city proper.

Extending from both sides of the room were stone quays for loading and unloading cargo. Pulleys,  

ropes, and empty nets hung from the ceiling, and a crane was mounted upon a high stone platform in the  

middle of each artificial shore. At the front of the room and at the back, stairs and walkways protruding  

from the mold-covered walls would allow a person to cross over the water without getting wet. The rear  

walkway also granted access to the guardrooms above the tunnel the barges had entered through, as well

Page 120

as, Roran assumed, to the upper part of the city's defenses, such as the parapet where he had seen the  

soldier.

as, Roran assumed, to the upper part of the city's defenses, such as the parapet where he had seen the  

soldier.

Well, it can't be helped now, he thought.

Behind them, crimson-clad soldiers poured out of the guardrooms onto the walkway, where they knelt  

and began to crank on their crossbows, readying them for another volley.

"Over!" Roran shouted, waving his arm toward the docks on the left. The warriors grabbed their poles  

once more and pushed the interlocked barges toward the edge of the canal. The dozens and dozens of  

bolts that protruded from their shields gave the company the appearance of a hedgehog.

As the barge neared the docks, twenty of the defending soldiers drew their swords and ran down the  

stairs off the walkway to intercept the Varden before they could land.

"Hurry!" he shouted.

A bolt buried itself in his shield, the diamond-shaped tip boring through the inch-and-a-half-thick wood  

to protrude over his forearm. He stumbled and caught himself, knowing that he had only moments before  

more archers fired on him.

Then Roran jumped for the dock, arms spread wide for balance. He landed heavily, one knee striking  

the floor, and only just had time to pull his hammer from his belt before the soldiers were upon him.

It was with a sense of relief and savage joy that Roran met them. He was sick of plotting and planning  

and worrying about what might be. Here at last were honest foes-not creeping assassins-that he could  

fight and kill.

The encounter was short, fierce, and bloody. Roran slew or incapacitated three of the soldiers within the  

first few seconds. Then Baldor, Delwin, Hamund, Mandel, and others joined him to force the soldiers  

away from the water.

Roran was no swordsman, so he made no attempt to fence with his opponents. Instead, he let them hit  

his shield all they wanted, while he used his hammer to break their bones in return. Occasionally, he had  

to parry a cut or a stab, but he tried to avoid exchanging more than a few blows with any one person,  

because he knew his lack of experience would soon prove fatal. The most useful trick of fighting, he had  

discovered, was not some fancy twirl of the sword or some complicated feint that took years to master,  

but rather seizing the initiative and doing whatever his enemy least expected.

Breaking free of the brawl, Roran sprinted toward the stairs that led to the walkway where the archers  

knelt, firing at the men scrambling off the barges.

Roran bounded up the stairs three at a time and, swinging his hammer, caught the first archer full in the  

face. The next soldier in line had already fired his crossbow, so he dropped it and reached for the hilt of  

his short sword, retreating backward as he did.

The soldier only managed to pull his blade partway out of its sheath before Roran struck him in the  

chest, breaking his ribs.

Page 121

One of the things Roran liked about fighting with a hammer was that he did not have to pay much  

attention to what kind of armor his opponents were wearing. A hammer, like any blunt weapon, inflicted  

injuries by the strength of its impact, not by the cutting or piercing of flesh. The simplicity of the approach  

appealed to him.

One of the things Roran liked about fighting with a hammer was that he did not have to pay much  

attention to what kind of armor his opponents were wearing. A hammer, like any blunt weapon, inflicted  

injuries by the strength of its impact, not by the cutting or piercing of flesh. The simplicity of the approach  

appealed to him.

The maneuver left Roran wholly exposed, however, and as he returned his attention to the five soldiers  

who remained on the walkway, he saw three of them aiming straight at his heart.

The soldiers fired.

Just before the bolts tore through him, they veered to the right and skittered across the blackened walls,  

like giant angry wasps.

Roran knew it was Carn who had saved him, and he resolved to find some way to thank the magician  

once they were no longer in mortal danger.

He charged the remaining soldiers and dispatched them with a furious volley of strikes, as if they were so  

many bent nails he was hammering down. Then he broke off the crossbow bolt that was sticking through  

his shield and turned to see how the battle below was progressing.

The last soldier on the docks crumpled to the blood-streaked floor at that very moment, and his head  

rolled away from his body and dropped into the canal, where it sank beneath a plume of bubbles.

Roughly two-thirds of the Varden had disembarked and were gathering in orderly ranks along the edge  

of the water.

Roran opened his mouth, intending to order them to move back from the canal-so that the men still on  

the barges had more room to get off-when the doors set into the left wall burst open and a horde of  

soldiers poured into the room.

Blast it! Where are they coming from? And how many are there?

Just as Roran started toward the stairs to help his men fend off the newcomers, Carn-who still stood at  

the head of the listing barges-raised his arms, pointed at the onrushing soldiers, and shouted a series of  

harsh, twisted words in the ancient language.

At his eldritch command, two sacks of flour and a single slab of slate flew off the barges and into the  

ranks of closely packed soldiers, cutting down over a dozen. The sacks burst open after the third or  

fourth impact, and clouds of ivory flour billowed out over the soldiers, blinding and choking them.

A second later, there was a flare of light next to the wall behind the soldiers, and a huge roiling fireball,  

orange and sooty, raced through the clouds of flour, devouring the fine powder with rapacious greed and  

producing a sound like a hundred flags flapping in a high wind.

Page 122

Roran ducked behind his shield and felt searing heat against his legs and the bare skin of his cheeks as  

the fireball burned itself out only yards away from the walkway, glowing motes becoming ash that drifted  

downward: a black, charnel rain fitting only for a funeral.

Roran ducked behind his shield and felt searing heat against his legs and the bare skin of his cheeks as  

the fireball burned itself out only yards away from the walkway, glowing motes becoming ash that drifted  

downward: a black, charnel rain fitting only for a funeral.

"Oi!" he shouted down at Carn. "You singed my beard! Be more careful, or I'll have your head on a  

pike!"

Most of the soldiers lay curled on the ground, cupping their burned faces. Others were thrashing about  

with their clothes on fire or were flailing blindly in circles with their weapons, in an attempt to fend off any  

attacks by the Varden. Roran's own men appeared to have escaped with only minor burns-most had  

been standing outside the radius of the fireball-although the unexpected conflagration had left them  

disoriented and unsteady.

"Stop gaping like fools and get after those groping rascals before they regain their senses!" he ordered,  

banging his hammer against the railing to ensure that he had their attention.

The Varden heavily outnumbered the soldiers, and by the time Roran reached the bottom of the stairs,  

they had already put to death fully three-quarters of the defending force.

Leaving the disposal of the few remaining soldiers to his more-than-able warriors, Roran made his way  

toward the large double doors to the left of the canal-doors wide enough for two wagons to drive  

through abreast. As he did, he came upon Carn, who was sitting at the base of the crane's platform,  

eating out of a leather pouch he always carried. The pouch, Roran knew, contained a mixture of lard,  

honey, powdered beef liver, lamb's heart, and berries. The one time Carn had given him a piece, he had  

gagged-but even a few bites could keep a man on his feet for a whole day's worth of hard work.

To Roran's concern, the magician looked utterly exhausted. "Can you continue?" Roran asked, pausing  

by him.

Carn nodded. "I just need a moment.... The bolts in the tunnel, and then the sacks of flour and the piece  

of slate ..." He pushed another morsel of food in his mouth. "It was a bit much all at once."

Reassured, Roran started to move away, but Carn caught him by the arm. "I didn't do it," he said, and  

his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Singe your beard, that is. The torches must have started the fire."

Roran grunted, and continued on to the doors. "Form up!" he shouted, and slapped his shield with the  

flat of his hammer. "Baldor, Delwin, you take the lead with me. The rest of you, line up behind us. Shields  

out, swords drawn, arrows nocked. Halstead probably doesn't know yet that we're in the city, so don't  

let anyone escape who could warn him.... Ready, then? Right, with me!"

Together he and Baldor-whose cheeks and nose were red from the explosion-unbarred the doors  

and threw them open, revealing the interior of Aroughs.

DUST ANDASHES

Page 123

Roran had no intention of staying around to find out for sure.

Hazy rays of newborn light streaked horizontally across the city, gilding the tops of the towers, the  

battlements, the cupolas, and the slanted roofs. The streets and alleyways were cloaked in shadows the  

color of tarnished silver, and the water in its stone-lined channel was dark and dismal and laced with  

streaks of blood. High above gleamed a lone wandering star, a furtive spark in the brightening blue  

mantle, where the sun's growing radiance had obscured all of the other nighttime jewels.

Forward the Varden trotted, their leather boots scuffing against the cobblestone street.

Off in the distance, a cock crowed.

Roran led them through the warren of buildings toward the inner wall of the city, but not always choosing  

the most obvious or direct route, so as to reduce their chances of encountering someone in the streets.  

The lanes they followed were narrow and murky, and sometimes he had difficulty seeing where he was  

placing his feet.

Filth clotted the gutters of the streets. The stench filled him with loathing and made him wish for the open  

fields he was used to.

How can anyone bear to live in such conditions?he wondered.Even pigs won't wallow in their  

own dirt .

Away from the curtain wall, the buildings changed to houses and shops: tall, crossbeamed, with  

whitewashed walls and wrought-iron fixtures upon the doors. Behind the shuttered windows, Roran  

sometimes heard the sound of voices, or the clatter of dishes, or the scrape of a chair being pulled across  

a wooden floor.

We're running out of time, he thought. Another few minutes and the streets would be teeming with the  

denizens of Aroughs.

As if to fulfill his prediction, two men stepped out of an alleyway in front of the column of warriors. Both  

of the city dwellers carried yokes on their shoulders with buckets of fresh milk hanging off the ends.

The men stopped with surprise as they saw the Varden, the milk sloshing out of the buckets. Their eyes  

widened, and their mouths fell open in preparation of some exclamation.

Roran halted, as did the troop behind him. "If you scream, we'll kill you," he said in a soft, friendly  

voice.

The men shivered and inched away.

Page 124

Roran stepped forward. "If you run, we'll kill you." Without taking his eyes off the two frightened men,  

he uttered Carn's name and, when the magician arrived at his side, he said, "Put them to sleep for me, if  

you would."

Roran stepped forward. "If you run, we'll kill you." Without taking his eyes off the two frightened men,  

he uttered Carn's name and, when the magician arrived at his side, he said, "Put them to sleep for me, if  

you would."

"Pull them off to the side," Roran said, "where they can't be seen."

As soon as his warriors had dragged the two unconscious men out of the way, he ordered the Varden  

forward once more, resuming their hurried march toward the inner wall.

Before they had gone more than a hundred feet, however, they turned a corner and ran headlong into a  

group of four soldiers.

This time Roran showed no mercy. He sprinted across the space that separated them and, while the  

soldiers were still trying to gather their wits, he buried the flat blade of his hammer into the base of the  

lead soldier's neck. Likewise, Baldor cut down one of the other soldiers, swinging his sword with a  

strength few men could match, a strength born of years spent working at his father's forge.

The last two soldiers squawked with alarm, turned, and ran.

An arrow shot past Roran's shoulder from somewhere behind him and took one soldier in the back,  

knocking him to the ground. A moment later, Carn barked, "Jierda!" The neck of the final soldier broke  

with an audiblesnap , and he tumbled forward to lie motionless in the center of the street.

The soldier with the arrow in him began to scream: "The Varden are here! The Varden are here! Sound  

the alarm, the-"

Drawing his dagger, Roran ran over to the man and cut his throat. He wiped the blade clean on the  

man's tunic, then stood and said, "Move out, now!"

As one, the Varden charged up the streets toward the inner wall of Aroughs.

When they were only a hundred feet away, Roran stopped in an alley behind a house and raised a hand,  

signaling his men to wait. Then he crept along the side of the house and peered around the corner at the  

portcullis set within the tall granite wall.

The gate was closed.

To the left of the gate, however, a small sally port stood wide open. Even as he watched, a soldier ran  

out through it and headed off toward the western edge of the city.

Roran cursed to himself as he stared at the sally port. He was not about to give up, not when they had  

made it this far, but their position was growing ever more precarious, and he had no doubt that they had  

only a few more minutes before curfew lifted and their presence became widely known.

He withdrew behind the side of the house and bowed his head as he thought furiously.

Page 125

"Mandel," he said, and snapped his fingers. "Delwin, Carn, and you three." He pointed at a trio of  

fierce-looking warriors-older men who, by their very age, he knew must have a knack for winning  

battles. "Come with me. Baldor, you're in charge of the rest. If we don't make it back, get yourselves to  

safety. That's an order."

"Mandel," he said, and snapped his fingers. "Delwin, Carn, and you three." He pointed at a trio of  

fierce-looking warriors-older men who, by their very age, he knew must have a knack for winning  

battles. "Come with me. Baldor, you're in charge of the rest. If we don't make it back, get yourselves to  

safety. That's an order."

With the six warriors he had selected, Roran circled the main thoroughfare that led to the gate until they  

reached the rubbish-strewn base of the outward-slanting wall, perhaps fifty feet from the portcullis and  

the open sally port.

A soldier was stationed on each of the two gate towers, but at the moment, neither was visible, and  

unless they stuck their heads over the edges of the battlements, they would not be able to see Roran and  

his companions approaching.

In a whisper, Roran said, "Once we're through the door, you, you, and you"-he motioned at Carn,  

Delwin, and one of the other warriors-"make for the guardhouse on the other side fast as you can.  

We'll take the near one. Do what you have to, butget that gate open . There may be only one wheel to  

turn, or we may have to work together to raise it, so don't think you can go and die on me. Ready? ...  

Now!"

Running as quietly as he could, Roran dashed along the wall and, with a quick turn, darted into the sally  

port.

Before him was a twenty-foot-long chamber that opened to a large square with a tiered fountain in the  

center. Men in fine clothes were hurrying back and forth across the square, many of them clutching  

scrolls.

Ignoring them, Roran turned to a closed door, which he unlatched by hand, restraining the urge to kick it  

open. Through the door was a dingy guardroom with a spiral staircase built into one wall.

He raced up the stairs and, after a single revolution, found himself in a low-ceilinged room, where five  

soldiers were smoking and playing dice at a table set next to a huge windlass wrapped with chains as  

thick as his arm.

"Greetings!" said Roran in a deep, commanding voice. "I have a most important message for you."

The soldiers hesitated, then sprang to their feet, pushing back the benches they were sitting on. The  

wooden legs screeched as they dragged over the floor.

They were too late. Brief though it was, their indecision was all Roran needed to cross the distance  

between them before the soldiers could draw their weapons.

Roran bellowed as he waded into their midst, lashing out left and right with his hammer and driving the  

five men back into a corner. Then Mandel and the two other warriors were at his side, swords flashing.  

Together they made short work of the guards.

When he stood over the twitching body of the last soldier, Roran spat on the ground and said, "Don't  

trust strangers."

Page 126

The fighting had polluted the room with a collection of horrific odors, which seemed to press against  

Roran like a thick, heavy blanket made of the most unpleasant substance he could imagine. He was  

barely able to breathe without being sick, so he covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his tunic,  

trying to filter out some of the smells.

The fighting had polluted the room with a collection of horrific odors, which seemed to press against  

Roran like a thick, heavy blanket made of the most unpleasant substance he could imagine. He was  

barely able to breathe without being sick, so he covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his tunic,  

trying to filter out some of the smells.

Roran spun around, raising his hammer as he heard a clink of metal and then the loud creak of a wooden  

trapdoor being pulled open, followed by a clatter of footsteps as a soldier descended the winding  

staircase from the gate tower above.

"Taurin, what in the blazes is going-" The soldier's voice died in his throat and he stopped partway  

down the stairs as he caught sight of Roran and his companions, as well as the mangled bodies in the  

corner.

A warrior to Roran's right threw a spear at the soldier, but the soldier ducked and the spear struck the  

wall above him. The soldier cursed and scrambled back up the stairs on all fours, vanishing behind a  

curve of the wall.

A moment later, the trapdoor slammed shut with an echoingboom , and then they heard the soldier wind  

a horn and shout frantic warnings to the people in the square.

Roran scowled and returned to the windlass. "Leave him," he said, shoving his hammer under his belt.  

He leaned against the spoked wheel used to raise and lower the portcullis and pushed as hard as he  

could, straining every muscle. The other men added their strength to his, and slowly, ever so slowly, the  

wheel began to turn, the ratchet on the side of the windlass clicking loudly as the huge wooden catch slid  

over the teeth below.

The effort needed to turn the wheel became substantially easier a few seconds later, a fact that Roran  

attributed to the team he had sent to infiltrate the other guardhouse.

They did not bother to raise the portcullis all the way; after a half minute of grunting and sweating, the  

fierce war cries of the Varden reached their ears as the men waiting outside charged through the gate and  

into the square.

Roran released the wheel, then pulled out his hammer again and made for the stairs with the others in  

tow.

Outside the guardhouse, he spotted Carn and Delwin just as they emerged from the structure on the  

other side of the gate. Neither appeared injured, but Roran noticed that the older warrior who had  

accompanied them was now absent.

While they waited for Roran's group to rejoin them, Baldor and the rest of the Varden organized  

themselves into a solid block of men at the edge of the square. They stood five ranks deep, shoulder to  

shoulder with their shields overlapping.

As he trotted over to them, Roran saw a large contingent of soldiers emerge from among the buildings at  

the far side of the square. There they assumed a defensive formation, angling their spears and pikes  

outward, so they resembled a long, low pincushion stuck full of needles. He estimated that about one  

hundred fifty soldiers were present-a number that his warriors could certainly overcome, but at a cost

Page 127

of both time and men.

of both time and men.

Carn arrived at the head of the warriors seconds after Roran. Together they and Baldor gazed at the  

magician and the ridge of soldiers assembled in opposition.

"Can you kill him?" Roran asked quietly, so the men behind him could not hear.

"I'll have to try, now won't I?" replied Carn. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Perspiration  

beaded his face.

"If you want, we can rush him. He can't kill us all before we wear down his wards and put a blade  

through his heart."

"You don't know that.... No, this is my responsibility, and I have to deal with it."

"Is there anything we can do to help?"

Carn uttered a nervous laugh. "You could shoot some arrows at him. Blocking them might weaken him  

enough that he'll make a mistake. But whatever you do, don't get between us.... It won't be safe, for  

you or for me."

Roran transferred his hammer to his left hand, then placed his right on Carn's shoulder. "You'll be fine.  

Remember, he's not that clever. You tricked him before, and you can trick him again."

"I know."

"Good luck," said Roran.

Carn nodded once, then walked toward the fountain in the center of the square. The light from the sun  

had reached the plume of dancing water, which glittered like handfuls of diamonds tossed into the air.

The hook-nosed magician also walked toward the fountain, matching his steps to Carn's until they stood  

only twenty feet apart, whereupon they both stopped.

From where Roran was standing, Carn and his opponent appeared to be talking to each other, but they  

were too far away for him to make out what they said. Then both of the spellcasters went rigid, as if  

someone had jabbed them with poniards.

That was what Roran had been waiting for: a sign that they were dueling with their minds, too busy to  

pay attention to their surroundings.

"Archers!" he barked. "Go there and there," and he pointed at either side of the square. "Put as many  

arrows into that traitorous dog as you can, but don't you dare hit Carn or I'll have you fed alive to  

Saphira."

Page 128

The soldiers shifted uneasily as the two groups of archers advanced partway across the square, but none  

of Galbatorix's crimson-clad troops broke formation or moved to engage the Varden.

The soldiers shifted uneasily as the two groups of archers advanced partway across the square, but none  

of Galbatorix's crimson-clad troops broke formation or moved to engage the Varden.

Dozens of brown, goose-feather-fletched arrows arched spinning and whistling toward the enemy  

magician, and for a moment, Roran hoped that they might be able to kill him. Five feet from the  

hook-nosed man, however, every single shaft shattered and dropped to the ground, as if they had run  

headlong into a wall of stone.

Roran bounced on his heels, too tense to stand still. He hated having to wait, doing nothing, while his  

friend was in danger. Moreover, every passing moment gave Lord Halstead more of an opportunity to  

figure out what was happening and devise an effective response. If Roran's men were to avoid being  

crushed by the Empire's superior forces, they had to keep their enemies off balance, unsure of where to  

turn or what to do.

"On your toes!" he said, turning to the warriors. "Let's see if we can do some good while Carn is  

fighting to save our necks. We're going to flank those soldiers. Half of you come with me; the rest follow  

Delwin here. They can't block off every single street, so Delwin, you and your men work your way past  

the soldiers, then loop back around and attack them from behind. We'll keep them busy on this front, so  

they won't put up much resistance. If any of the soldiers try to run, let them. It would take too long to kill  

them all anyway. Got it? ... Go, go, go!"

The men quickly separated into two groups. Leading his, Roran ran up the right-hand edge of the  

square, while Delwin did the same on the left.

When both bands of men were almost level with the fountain, Roran saw the enemy magician look  

toward him. It was the merest flicker of a glance, sidelong and fleeting, but the distraction, whether  

intended or not, seemed to have an immediate effect on his duel with Carn. As the hook-nosed man  

returned his gaze to Carn, the snarl upon his face deepened into a painful rictus, and veins began to bulge  

on his knotted brow and on his corded neck, and his whole head flushed a dark, angry red, as if it were  

so swollen with blood that it might burst asunder.

"No!" howled the man, and then he shouted something in the ancient language that Roran could not  

understand.

A fraction of a second later, Carn shouted something as well and, for a moment, their two voices  

overlapped with such a dire mixture of terror, desolation, hate, and fury that Roran knew deep in his  

bones that the duel had somehow gone horribly wrong.

Carn vanished amid a blaze of blue light. Then a white, dome-like shell flashed outward from where he  

had been standing and expanded across the square in less time than it took Roran to blink.

The world went black. An unbearable heat pressed against Roran, and everything turned and twisted  

around him as he tumbled through a formless space.

His hammer was wrenched out of his hand, and pain erupted in the side of his right knee. Then a hard  

object smashed into his mouth, and he felt a tooth pop loose, filling his mouth with blood.

When he finally came to rest, he remained where he was, lying on his belly, too stunned to move. His  

senses gradually returned, and he saw the smooth, gray-green surface of a paving stone underneath his

Page 129

nose, and he smelled the lead mortar that surrounded the stone, and all throughout his body he became  

aware of aches and bruises clamoring for his attention. The only sound he could hear was that of his  

pounding heart.

nose, and he smelled the lead mortar that surrounded the stone, and all throughout his body he became  

aware of aches and bruises clamoring for his attention. The only sound he could hear was that of his  

pounding heart.

Levering himself off the ground, he got to his feet. He had been thrown against the doorstep of one of  

the houses that bordered the square. His men were scattered about him, arms and legs askew, helmets  

lost, swords torn away.

Again Roran was grateful that he carried a hammer, for several of the Varden had managed to stab  

themselves or their shield mates during the tumult.

Hammer? Whereismy hammer? he belatedly thought. He cast about the ground until he spotted the  

handle of his weapon protruding from beneath the legs of a nearby warrior. He pulled it free, then turned  

to look at the square.

Soldiers and Varden alike had been tossed sprawling. Nothing remained of the fountain except for a low  

pile of rubble from which water spurted at erratic intervals. Next to it, where Carn had been, lay a  

blackened, withered corpse, its smoking limbs clenched tight, like those of a dead spider, the whole thing  

so charred and pitted and burned away that it was barely recognizable as anything that had once been  

alive or human. Inexplicably, the hook-nosed magician still stood in the same place, though the explosion  

had robbed him of his outer clothes, leaving him wearing nothing but his breeches.

Uncontrollable anger gripped Roran, and without a thought for his own preservation, he staggered  

toward the center of the square, determined to kill the magician once and for all.

The bare-chested conjurer held his ground even as Roran drew near. Raising his hammer, Roran broke  

out into a shambling run and shouted a war cry that he could hear but dimly.

And yet the magician made no move to defend himself.

In fact, Roran realized that the spellcaster had not stirred so much as an inch since the explosion. It was  

as if he were a statue of a man and not the thing itself.

The spellcaster's seeming indifference to Roran's approach tempted Roran to ignore the man's unusual  

behavior-or lack of behavior, as it was-and simply bash him over the head before he recovered from  

whatever strange stupor ailed him. However, Roran's wariness cooled his lust for vengeance and caused  

him to slow to a stop not five feet from the magician.

He was glad he did.

While the magician had appeared normal from a distance, up close, Roran saw that his skin was loose  

and wrinkled like that of a man thrice his age, and that it had acquired a coarse, leathery texture. The  

color of his skin had darkened as well, and was continuing to darken, moment by moment, as if his entire  

body had been bitten by frost.

Page 130

The man's chest was heaving and his eyeballs were rolling in their sockets, showing white, but other than  

that, he seemed incapable of movement.

The man's chest was heaving and his eyeballs were rolling in their sockets, showing white, but other than  

that, he seemed incapable of movement.

The man's breathing-a panicked, high-pitched sawing-faltered then, but still did not entirely cease.

Horrified, Roran stepped backward. He felt something slick beneath his boots and looked down to see  

that he was standing in a spreading puddle of water. At first he thought it was from the broken fountain,  

but then he realized that the water was flowing outward from the feet of the paralyzed magician.

Roran cursed, revulsion filling him, and jumped to a dry patch of ground. Seeing the water, he  

understood what it was Carn had done, and his already profound sense of horror increased. Carn, it  

seemed, had cast a spell that was drawing every single drop of moisture from the magician's body.

Over the span of only another few seconds, the spell reduced the man to no more than a knobby  

skeleton wrapped in a shell of hard black skin, mummifying him the same as if he had been left in the  

Hadarac Desert, exposed to a hundred years of wind and sun and shifting sands. Although he was most  

certainly dead by then, he did not fall, as Carn's magic held him upright: a ghastly, grinning specter that  

was the equal of the most terrible things Roran had ever seen in his nightmares or on the battlefield-both  

being much the same.

Then the surface of the man's desiccated body blurred as it dissolved into a fine gray dust, which sifted  

downward in gauzy curtains and lay floating atop the water below, like ashes from a forest fire. Muscle  

and bone soon followed, then the stony organs, and then the last parts of the hook-nosed magician  

crumbled away, leaving behind only a small, conical mound of powder rising out of the pool of water that  

had once sustained its life.

Roran looked over at Carn's corpse, then looked away just as quickly, unable to bear the sight.At least  

you had your revenge onhim . Then he put aside thoughts of his slain friend, for they were too painful to  

dwell on, and instead concentrated upon the most immediate problem at hand: the soldiers at the  

southern end of the square, who were slowly picking themselves up off the ground.

Roran saw the Varden doing much the same. "Oi!" he shouted. "With me! We'll never have a better  

chance than now." He pointed at some of his men who were obviously wounded. "Help them up and put  

them in the center of the formation. No one gets left behind. No one!" His lips and mouth throbbed as he  

spoke, and his head ached as if he had been up all night drinking.

The Varden rallied at the sound of his voice and hurried to join him. As the men gathered into a broad  

column behind him, Roran took his place in the foremost rank of warriors, between Baldor and Delwin,  

both of whom bore bloody scrapes from the explosion.

"Carn is dead?" Baldor asked.

Roran nodded and lifted his shield, as did the other men, so that they formed a solid, outward-facing  

wall.

Page 131

"Then we better hope Halstead doesn't have another magician hidden away somewhere," Delwin  

muttered.

"Then we better hope Halstead doesn't have another magician hidden away somewhere," Delwin  

muttered.

Whether because their leadership was less effective than the Varden's or because the blast had dealt  

them a more severe blow, the Empire soldiers had failed to recover as quickly and so were still  

disorganized when the Varden drove into their midst.

Roran grunted and staggered back a step as a spear embedded itself in his shield, numbing his arm and  

dragging it down through sheer weight. Reaching around, he swept his hammer across the face of the  

shield. It bounced off the haft of the spear, which refused to budge.

A soldier in front of him, perhaps the very one who had thrown the spear, seized the opportunity to run  

at him and swing his sword at Roran's neck. Roran started to lift his shield, along with the spear lodged in  

it, but it was too heavy and cumbersome for him to protect himself with. So he used his hammer instead,  

lashing out at the descending sword.

On edge, however, the blade was almost impossible for him to see, and he timed his parry badly and  

missed the sword with his hammer. He would have died then, except that his knuckles clipped the flat of  

the blade, deflecting it several inches to the side.

A line of fire cut through Roran's right shoulder. Jagged bolts of lightning shot down his side, and his  

vision flashed bright yellow. His right knee buckled and he fell forward.

Stone underneath him. Feet and legs around him, hemming him in so he could not roll away to safety. His  

whole body sluggish and unresponsive, as if he were trapped in honey.

Too slow, too slow, he thought as he struggled to free his arm from the shield and get his feet back  

under him. If he stayed on the ground, he would be either stabbed or trampled.Too slow!

Then he saw the soldier collapse in front of him, clutching at his belly, and a second later, someone  

pulled Roran up by the collar of his hauberk and held him upright while he regained his footing. It was  

Baldor.

Twisting his neck, Roran looked at where the soldier had struck him. Five links in his mail shirt had split  

open, but other than that, the armor had held. Despite the blood oozing out of the rent, and the pain that  

racked his neck and arm, he did not think the wound was life-threatening, nor was he about to stop and  

find out. His right arm still worked-at least enough to continue fighting-and that was all he cared about  

at the moment.

Someone passed him a replacement shield. He grimly shouldered it and pressed onward with his men,  

forcing the soldiers to retreat along the wide street that led from the square.

The soldiers soon broke and ran in the face of the Varden's overwhelming strength, fleeing down the  

myriad side streets and alleys that branched off the thoroughfare.

Roran paused then and sent fifty of his men back to close the portcullis and sally port and to guard them  

against any foes who might seek to follow the Varden into the heart of Aroughs. Most of the soldiers in  

the city would be stationed close to the outer wall to repel besiegers, and Roran had no desire to face

Page 132

them in open battle. To do so would be suicidal, given the size of Halstead's forces.

them in open battle. To do so would be suicidal, given the size of Halstead's forces.

A spacious courtyard with an artificial pond-wherein swam geese and white swans-lay before the  

palace, which towered several stories above the rest of Aroughs. The palace was a beautiful, ornate  

structure of open arches, colonnades, and wide balconies intended for dancing and parties. Unlike the  

castle in the heart of Belatona, it had obviously been built with pleasure in mind, not defense.

They must have assumed no one could get past their walls, thought Roran.

Several dozen guards and soldiers in the courtyard charged haphazardly at the Varden when they caught  

sight of them, shouting war cries the whole while.

"Stay in formation!" Roran ordered as the men rushed toward them.

For a minute or two, the sound of clashing arms filled the courtyard. The geese and the swans honked  

with alarm at the commotion and beat the water with their wings, but none of them dared leave the  

confines of their pond.

It did not take long for the Varden to rout the soldiers and guards. Then they stormed the entryway of  

the palace, which was so richly decorated with paintings on the walls and ceilings-as well as gilt  

moldings, carved furniture, and a patterned floor-that Roran found it difficult to take in all at once. The  

wealth required to build and maintain such an edifice was more than he could comprehend. The entire  

farm where he had grown up had not been equal the worth of a single chair in that grand hall.

Through an open doorway, he saw three servingwomen running down another long corridor as fast as  

their skirts would allow.

"Don't let them get away!" he exclaimed.

Five swordsmen broke off from the main body of the Varden and dashed after the women, catching  

them before they reached the end of the passageway. The women uttered piercing screams and struggled  

ferociously, clawing at their captors, as the men dragged them back to where Roran was waiting.

"Enough!" shouted Roran when they were in front of him, and the women ceased fighting, although they  

continued to whimper and moan. The oldest of the three, a stout matron who had her silver hair pulled  

back in an untidy bun and who carried a ring of keys at her waist, appeared the most reasonable, so  

Roran asked her, "Where is Lord Halstead?"

The woman stiffened and lifted her chin. "Do with me what you will, sir, but I'll not betray my master."

Roran moved toward her until they were only a foot apart. "Listen to me, and listen well," he growled.  

"Aroughs has fallen, and you and everyone else in this city are at my mercy. Nothing you can do will  

change that. Tell me where Halstead is, and we'll let you and your companions go. You can't save him  

from his doom, but you can save yourselves." His torn lips were so swollen, he was barely able to make  

himself understood, and with every word, flecks of blood flew from his mouth.

"My own fate doesn't matter, sir," said the woman, her expression as determined as any warrior's.

Page 133

Roran cursed and slapped his hammer against his shield, producing a harsh crash that echoed loudly in  

the cavernous hall. The women flinched at the sound. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Is Halstead  

worth your life? Is the Empire? Is Galbatorix?"

Roran cursed and slapped his hammer against his shield, producing a harsh crash that echoed loudly in  

the cavernous hall. The women flinched at the sound. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Is Halstead  

worth your life? Is the Empire? Is Galbatorix?"

"Is that so?" He stared at her fiercely. "How long do you think you can hold your tongue if I decide to  

let my men wring the truth out of you?"

"You'll never make me talk," she declared, and he believed her.

"What about them?" He nodded toward the other women, the youngest of whom could not have been  

more than seventeen. "Are you willing to let them be cut into pieces just to save your master?"

The woman sniffed disdainfully, then said, "Lord Halstead is in the east wing of the palace. Take the  

corridor over there, go through the Yellow Room and Lady Galiana's flower garden, and you'll find him  

sure as rain."

Roran listened with suspicion. Her capitulation seemed too quick and too easy given her earlier  

resistance. Also, while she spoke, he noticed that the other two women reacted with surprise and some  

other emotion he could not identify.Confusion? he wondered. In any event, they did not react the way  

he would have expected if the silver-haired woman had just delivered their lord into the arms of their  

enemies. They were too quiet, too subdued, as if they were hiding something.

Of the two, the girl was the less skilled at masking her feelings, so Roran turned on her with all the  

savagery he could muster. "You there, she's lying, isn't she? Where is Halstead?Tell me! "

The girl opened her mouth and shook her head, speechless. She tried to back away from him, but one of  

the warriors held her in place.

Roran stomped over to her, jammed his shield flat against her chest, knocking the air out of her, and  

leaned his weight against it, pinning her between him and the man behind her. Lifting his hammer, Roran  

touched it to the side of her cheek. "You're rather pretty, but you'll have a hard time finding anyone but  

old men to court you if I knock out your front teeth. I lost a tooth myself today, but I managed to put it  

back in. See?" And he spread his lips in what he was sure was a gruesome approximation of a smile. "I'll  

keep your teeth, though, so you won't be able to do the same. They'll make a fine trophy, eh?" And he  

made a threatening motion with the hammer.

The girl cringed and cried, "No! Please, sir, I don't know. Please! He was in his quarters, meeting with  

his captains, but then he and Lady Galiana were going to go to the tunnel to the docks, and-"

"Thara, you fool!" exclaimed the matron.

"There's a ship waiting for them, there is, and I don't know where he is now, but please don't hit me, I  

don't know anything else, sir, and-"

"His quarters," barked Roran. "Where are they?"

Sobbing, the girl told him.

Page 134

"Let them go," he said when she finished, and the three women darted out of the entryway, the hard

"Let them go," he said when she finished, and the three women darted out of the entryway, the hard

Partway to their destination, they came upon an atrium with a statue of a huge black dragon in the  

middle. Roran wondered if it was supposed to be Galbatorix's dragon, Shruikan. As they trooped past  

the statue, Roran heard atwang , and then something struck him in the back.

He fell against a stone bench next to the path and clutched at it.  

Pain.  

Agonizing, thought-destroying pain, the likes of which he had never experienced before. Pain so intense,

he would have cut off his own hand to make it stop. It felt as if a red-hot poker were being pressed into  

his back.  

He could not move....  

He could not breathe....

Even the smallest shift in position caused him unbearable torment.  

Shadows fell across him, and he heard Baldor and Delwin shouting, then Brigman, of all people, was  

saying something as well, although Roran could not make sense of it.

The pain suddenly increased tenfold, and he bellowed, which only made it worse. With a supreme effort

of will, he forced himself to remain absolutely still. Tears ran from the corners of his clenched eyes.  

Then Brigman was talking to him. "Roran, you have an arrow in your back. We tried to catch the archer,  

but he escaped."

"Hurts ...," Roran gasped.

"That's because the arrow hit one of your ribs. It would have gone right through you, otherwise. You're  

lucky it wasn't an inch higher or lower and that it missed your spine and your shoulder blade."  

"Pull it out," he said between gritted teeth.  

"We can't; the arrow has a barbed head. And we can't push it through to the other side. It has to be cut

out. I have some experience with this, Roran. If you trust me to wield the knife, I can do it here and now.  

Or, if you prefer, we can wait until we find you a healer. There must be one or two somewhere in the  

palace."

Though he hated to put himself in Brigman's power, Roran could bear the pain no longer, so he said,  

"Do it here.... Baldor ..."  

"Yes, Roran?"

Page 135

"Take fifty men and find Halstead. Whatever happens, he can't escape. Delwin ... stay with me."

"Take fifty men and find Halstead. Whatever happens, he can't escape. Delwin ... stay with me."

At Brigman's insistence, a team of warriors fetched chairs from a nearby room, broke them into pieces,  

and built a fire on the gravel-lined path next to the statue. Into the fire was placed the tip of a dagger,  

which Roran knew Brigman would use to cauterize the wound in his back after removing the arrow, lest  

he bleed to death.

As he lay on the bench, stiff and trembling, Roran focused on controlling his breathing, taking slow,  

shallow breaths to minimize the pain. Difficult as it was, he purged his mind of all other thoughts. What  

had been and what might be did not matter, only the steady inflow and outflow of air through his nostrils.

He almost passed out when four men lifted him from the bench and lowered him facedown to the  

ground. Someone stuffed a leather glove into his mouth, aggravating the ache from his torn lips, while at  

the same time, rough hands grasped each of his legs and arms, stretching them out to their fullest extent  

and pinning them in place.

Roran glanced backward to see Brigman kneeling over him, holding a curved hunting knife in one hand.  

The knife began to descend, and Roran closed his eyes again and bit down hard on the glove.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

And then time and memory ceased for him.

INTERREGNUM

oran sat hunched over the edge of the table, toying with a jewel-encrusted goblet that he stared at  

without interest.

Night had fallen, and the only light in the lavish bedchamber came from the two candles on the desk and  

the small fire glowing on the hearth by the empty four-poster bed. All was quiet, save for an occasional  

crackle of burning wood.

A faint salty breeze wafted through the windows, parting the thin white curtains. He turned his face to  

catch the draft, welcoming the touch of cool air against his fevered skin.

Through the windows, he could see Aroughs laid out before him. Watchfires dotted the streets at  

intersections here and there, but otherwise the city was dark and motionless-unusually so, for everyone

Page 136

who could was hiding in their homes.

who could was hiding in their homes.

He set the goblet on the desk, next to the plate of bread and lamb and the half-empty bottle of wine,  

then glanced at the mirror propped upright between the two candles. It still reflected nothing but his own  

haggard face, bruised, bloodied, and missing a goodly portion of his beard on the right-hand side.

He looked away. She would contact him when she did. In the meantime he would wait. It was all he

could do; he hurt too much to sleep.

He picked up the goblet again and rolled it between his fingers.

Time passed.

* * *

Late that night, the mirror shimmered like a rippling pool of quicksilver, causing Roran to blink and gaze

at it through bleary, half-closed eyes.

The teardrop shape of Nasuada's face took form before him, her expression as serious as ever.  

"Roran," she said by way of greeting, her voice clear and strong.

"Lady Nasuada." He straightened off the table as far as he dared, which was only a few inches.

"Have you been captured?"

"No."

"Then I take it that Carn is either dead or wounded."

"He died while fighting another magician."

"I'm sorry to hear it.... He seemed a decent man, and we can ill afford to lose any of our spellcasters."

She paused for a moment. "And what of Aroughs?"

"The city is ours."

Nasuada's eyebrows rose. "Truly? I am most impressed. Tell me, how went the battle? Did everything

go according to plan?"

Opening his jaw as little as he could, so as to minimize the discomfort of talking, Roran mumbled his way  

through an account of the past several days, from his arrival at Aroughs to the one-eyed man who had  

attacked him in his tent to the breaking of the dams at the mills to how the Varden had fought their way  

through Aroughs to the palace of Lord Halstead, including Carn's duel with the enemy magician.

Then Roran related how he had been shot in the back, and how Brigman had cut the arrow out of him.  

"I'm lucky he was there; he did a good job of it. If not for him, I would have been next to useless until we

Page 137

found a healer." He cringed inwardly as, for a second, the memory of his wounds being cauterized  

jumped to the forefront of his mind, and he again felt the touch of hot metal against his flesh.

found a healer." He cringed inwardly as, for a second, the memory of his wounds being cauterized  

jumped to the forefront of his mind, and he again felt the touch of hot metal against his flesh.

"Aye, later, but he was no spellcaster."

Nasuada leaned back in her chair and studied him for a while. "I'm astonished you still have the strength  

to talk to me. The people of Carvahall are indeed made of stern stuff."

"Afterward, we secured the palace, as well as the rest of Aroughs, although there are still a few places  

where our grip is weak. It was fairly easy to convince the soldiers to surrender once they realized we had  

slipped behind their lines and captured the center of the city."

"And what of Lord Halstead? Did you capture him as well?"

"He was attempting to escape the palace when some of my men chanced upon him. Halstead had only a  

small number of guards with him, not enough to fight off our warriors, so he and his retainers fled into a  

wine cellar and barricaded themselves inside...." Roran rubbed his thumb over a ruby set in the goblet  

before him. "They wouldn't surrender, and I didn't dare storm the room; it would have been too costly.  

So ... I ordered the men to fetch pots of oil from the kitchens, light them on fire, and throw them against  

the door."

"Were you trying to smoke them out?" Nasuada asked.

He nodded slowly. "A few of the soldiers ran out once the door burned down, but Halstead waited too  

long. We found him on the floor, suffocated."

"That is unfortunate."

"Also ... his daughter, Lady Galiana." In his mind, he could still see her: tiny, delicate, garbed in a  

beautiful lavender dress covered with frills and ribbons.

Nasuada frowned. "Who succeeds Halstead as the earl of Fenmark?"

"Tharos the Quick."

"The same who led the charge against you yesterday?"

"The same."

It had been midafternoon when his men had brought Tharos before him. The small, bearded man had  

appeared dazed, though uninjured, and he had been missing his helm with its flamboyant plumes. To him,  

Roran-who was lying belly-down on a padded couch to save his back-had said, "I believe you owe  

me a bottle of wine."

"How have you done this?!" Tharos had demanded in response, the sound of despair ringing in his  

voice. "The city was impregnable. None but a dragon could have broken our walls. And yet look what  

you wrought. You are something other than human, something other than ..." And he had fallen silent,  

unable to speak any longer.

Page 138

"How did he react to the deaths of his father and sister?" Nasuada asked.

"How did he react to the deaths of his father and sister?" Nasuada asked.

"If ever I get the chance, I'll kill you for this," Tharos had said. "I swear it."

"You had best move quickly, then," Roran had retorted. "Another has already claimed my life, and if  

anyone is going to kill me, my guess is that it'll be her."

"... Roran? ... Roran!"

With a faint sense of surprise, he realized that Nasuada was calling his name. He looked at her again,  

framed in the mirror like a portrait, and struggled to find his tongue. At last he said, "Tharos isn't really  

the earl of Fenmark. He's the youngest of Halstead's seven sons, but all of his brothers have fled or are  

hiding. So, for the time being, Tharos is the only one left to claim the title. He makes a good envoy  

between us and the elders of the city. Without Carn, though, there's no way for me to tell who is sworn  

to Galbatorix and who isn't. Most of the lords and ladies are, I assume, and the soldiers, of course, but  

it's impossible to know who else."

Nasuada pursed her lips. "I see.... Dauth is the closest city to you. I'll ask Lady Alarice-whom I  

believe you've met-to send someone to Aroughs who is skilled in the art of reading minds. Most nobles  

keep one such person in their retinue, so it should be easy enough for Alarice to fulfill our request.  

However, when we marched for the Burning Plains, King Orrin brought with him every spellcaster of  

note from Surda, which means that whoever Alarice sends will most likely have no other skill with magic  

besides the ability to hear others' thoughts. And without the proper spells, it will be difficult to prevent  

those who are loyal to Galbatorix from opposing us at every turn."

While she spoke, Roran allowed his gaze to drift across the desk until it came to rest on the dark bottle  

of wine.I wonder if Tharos poisoned it? The thought failed to alarm him.

Then Nasuada was speaking to him again: "... hope that you have kept tight rein over your men and not  

let them run wild in Aroughs, burning, plundering, and taking liberties with its people?"

Roran was so tired, he found it difficult to marshal a coherent response, but at last he managed to say,  

"There are too few of us for the men to make mischief. They know as well as I do that the soldiers could  

retake the city if we gave them even the slightest opportunity."

"A mixed blessing, I suppose.... How many casualties did you suffer during the attack?"

"Forty-two."

For a while, silence lay between them. Then Nasuada said, "Did Carn have any family?"

Roran shrugged, a slight inward motion of his left shoulder. "I don't know. He was from somewhere in  

the north, I think, but neither of us really talked about our lives before ... before all of this.... It never  

seemed that important."

A sudden itch in Roran's throat forced him to cough again and again, and he curled over the table until

Page 139

his forehead touched the wood, grimacing as waves of pain assailed him from his back, his shoulder, and  

his mangled mouth. His convulsions were so violent, the wine in the goblet slopped over the rim and  

spilled onto his hand and wrist.

his forehead touched the wood, grimacing as waves of pain assailed him from his back, his shoulder, and  

his mangled mouth. His convulsions were so violent, the wine in the goblet slopped over the rim and  

spilled onto his hand and wrist.

"No." He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth, then looked up at her. "They've done all they  

can, and I'm no child to be fussed over."

Nasuada hesitated, then dipped her head. "As you wish."

"Now what happens?" he asked. "Am I finished here?"

"It was my intention to have you return as soon as we captured Aroughs-however that was  

accomplished-but you're in no condition to ride all the way to Dras-Leona. You'll have to wait until-"

"I won't wait," Roran growled. He grabbed the mirror and pulled it toward him until it was only a few  

inches from his face. "Don't you coddle me, Nasuada. I can ride, and I can ride fast. The only reason I  

came here is because Aroughs was a threat to the Varden. That threat is gone now-I removed it-and  

I'm not about to stay here, injuries or no injuries, while my wife and unborn child sit camped less than a  

mile away from Murtagh and his dragon!"

Nasuada's voice hardened for a moment. "You went to Aroughs becauseI sent you." Then, in a more  

relaxed tone, she said, "However, your point is well taken. You may return at once, if you are able.  

There's no reason for you to ride night and day, as you did during the journey there, but neither should  

you dawdle. Be sensible about it. I don't want to have to explain to Katrina that you killed yourself  

traveling.... Whom do you think I should select as your replacement when you leave Aroughs?"

"Captain Brigman."

"Brigman? Why? Didn't you have some difficulties with him?"

"He helped keep the men in line after I was shot. My head wasn't very clear at the time-"

"I imagine not."

"-and he saw to it that they didn't panic or lose their nerve. Also, he led them on my behalf while I was  

stuck in this miserable music box of a castle. He was the only one who had the experience for it. Without  

him, we wouldn't have been able to extend our control over the whole of Aroughs. The men like him,  

and he's skilled at planning and organizing. He'll do well at governing the city."

"Brigman it is, then." Nasuada looked away from the mirror and murmured something to a person he  

could not see. Turning back to him, she said, "I must admit, I never thought you would actually capture  

Aroughs. It seemed impossible that anyone could breach the city's defenses in so little time, with so few  

men, and without the aid of either a dragon or Rider."

"Then why send me here?"

"Because I had to trysomething before letting Eragon and Saphira fly so far away, and because you  

have made a habit of confounding expectations and prevailing where others would have faltered or given

Page 140

up. If the impossiblewere to happen, it seemed most likely that it would occur under your watch, as  

indeed it did."

up. If the impossiblewere to happen, it seemed most likely that it would occur under your watch, as  

indeed it did."

"Sneer if you want, but you cannot deny your own success. You have won a great victory for us today,  

Stronghammer. Or rather, Captain Stronghammer, I ought to say. You have more than earned the right  

to that title. I am immensely grateful for what you have done. By capturing Aroughs, you have freed us  

from the prospect of fighting a war on two fronts, which would have almost certainly meant our  

destruction. All of the Varden are in your debt, and I promise you, the sacrifices you and your men have  

made will not be forgotten."

Roran tried to say something, failed, tried again, and failed a second time before he finally managed to  

say: "I ... I will be sure to let the men know how you feel. It will mean a lot to them."

"Please do. And now I must bid you farewell. It is late, you are sick, and I have kept you far too long as  

it is."

"Wait ..." He reached toward her and struck the tips of his fingers against the mirror. "Wait. You  

haven't told me: How goes the siege of Dras-Leona?"

She stared at him, her expression flat. "Badly. And it shows no signs of improving. We could use you  

here, Stronghammer. If we don't find a way to bring this situation to an end, and soon, everything we  

have fought for will be lost."

THARDSVERGÛNDNZMAL

ou're fine," said Eragon, exasperated. "Stop worrying. There's nothing you can do about it  

anyway."

Saphira growled and continued to study her image in the lake. She turned her head from side to side,  

then exhaled heavily, releasing a cloud of smoke that drifted out over the water like a small, lost  

thundercloud.

Are you sure?she asked, and looked toward him.What if it doesn't grow back?

"Dragons grow new scales all the time. You know that."

Yes, but I've never lost one before!

He did not bother to hide his smile; he knew she would sense his amusement. "You shouldn't be so  

upset. It wasn't very big." Reaching out, he traced the diamond-shaped hole on the left side of her snout,

Page 141

where the object of her consternation had so recently been ensconced. The gap in her sparkling armor  

was no larger than the end of his thumb and about an inch deep. At the bottom of it, her leathery blue  

hide was visible.

where the object of her consternation had so recently been ensconced. The gap in her sparkling armor  

was no larger than the end of his thumb and about an inch deep. At the bottom of it, her leathery blue  

hide was visible.

Saphira snorted and pulled her head away from him.Stop that; it tickles .

He chuckled and kicked at the water by the base of the rock he was sitting on, enjoying the sensation  

against the bottom of his bare feet.

It may not have been very big, she said,but everyone will notice that it's missing. How could they  

not? One might as well overlook a bare patch of earth on the crest of a snow-covered mountain .  

And her eyes rolled forward as she tried to peer down her long snout at the small, dark hole above her  

nostril.

Eragon laughed and splashed a handful of water at her. Then, to soothe her injured pride, he said, "No  

one will notice, Saphira. Trust me. Besides, even if they do, they'll take it for a battle wound and  

consider you all the more fearsome because of it."

You think so?She returned to examining herself in the lake. The water and her scales reflected off each  

other in a dazzling array of rainbow-hued flecks.What if a soldier stabs me there? The blade would go  

right through me. Perhaps I should ask the dwarves to make a metal plate to cover the area until  

the scale regrows .

"That would look exceedingly ridiculous."

It would?

"Mm-hmm." He nodded, on the verge of laughing again.

She sniffed.There's no need to make fun of me. How would you like it if the fur on your head  

started falling out, or you lost one of those silly little nubs you call teeth? I would end up having to  

comfort you, no doubt .

"No doubt," he agreed easily. "But then, teeth don't grow back." He pushed himself off the rock and  

made his way up the shore to where he had left his boots, stepping carefully to avoid hurting his feet on  

the stones and branches that littered the water's edge. Saphira followed him, the soft earth squishing  

between her talons.

You could cast a spell to protect just that spot, she said as he pulled on his boots.

"I could. Do you want me to?"

I do.

He worked out the enchantment in his head while he laced up his boots, then placed the palm of his right  

hand over the pit in her snout and murmured the necessary words in the ancient language. A faint azure  

glow emanated from underneath his hand as he bound the ward to her body.

Page 142

"There," he said when he finished. "Now you have nothing to worry about."

"There," he said when he finished. "Now you have nothing to worry about."

He gave her a push on the jaw. "Come on, you. Let's go back to camp."

Together they left the lake and climbed the steep, crumbling bank behind them, Eragon using the  

exposed tree roots as handholds.

At the top of the rise, they had an unobstructed view of the Varden's camp a half mile to the east, as  

well as, somewhat north of the camp, the sprawling mess of Dras-Leona. The only signs of life within the  

city were the tendrils of smoke that rose from the chimneys of many a house. As always, Thorn lay  

draped across the battlements above the southern gate, basking in the bright afternoon light. The red  

dragon looked asleep, but Eragon knew from experience that he was keeping a close eye on the Varden,  

and the moment anyone began to approach the city, he would rouse himself and issue a warning to  

Murtagh and the others inside.

Eragon hopped onto Saphira's back, and she carried him to the camp at a leisurely pace.

When they arrived, he slid to the ground and took the lead as they moved between the tents. The camp  

was quiet, and everything about it felt slow and sleepy, from the low, drawling tones of the warriors'  

conversations to the pennants that hung motionless in the thick air. The only creatures who appeared  

immune to the general lethargy were the lean, half-feral dogs that ranged through the camp, constantly  

sniffing as they searched for discarded scraps of food. A number of the dogs bore scratches on their  

muzzles and flanks, the result of making the foolish, if understandable, mistake of thinking they could  

chase and torment a green-eyed werecat as they would any other cat. When it had happened, their yelps  

of pain had attracted the attention of the entire camp, and the men had laughed to see the dogs running  

away from the werecat with their tails between their legs.

Conscious of the many looks he and Saphira attracted, Eragon kept his chin high and his shoulders  

square and adopted a vigorous stride in an attempt to convey an impression of purpose and energy. The  

men needed to see that he was still full of confidence, and that he had not allowed the tedium of their  

present predicament to weigh him down.

If only Murtagh and Thorn would leave, thought Eragon.They wouldn't have to be gone for more  

than a day for us to capture the city .

So far, the siege of Dras-Leona had proven to be singularly uneventful. Nasuada refused to attack the  

city, for as she had said to Eragon, "You barely managed to best Murtagh the last time you met-do you  

forget how he stabbed you in the hip?-and he promised that he would be stronger still when you next  

crossed paths. Murtagh may be many things, but I am not inclined to believe he is a liar."

"Strength isn't everything when it comes to a fight between magicians," Eragon had pointed out.

"No, but it's not unimportant either. Also, he now has the support of the priests of Helgrind, more than a  

few of whom I suspect are magicians. I won't risk letting you face them and Murtagh head-on in battle,  

not even with Blödhgarm's spellcasters by your side. Until we can contrive to lure Murtagh and Thorn  

away, or trap them, or otherwise gain an advantage over them, we stay here, and we don't move against  

Dras-Leona."

Eragon had protested, arguing that it was impractical to stall their invasion, and that if he could not defeat

Page 143

Murtagh, what hope did she think he would have against Galbatorix? But Nasuada had remained  

unconvinced.

Murtagh, what hope did she think he would have against Galbatorix? But Nasuada had remained  

unconvinced.

Nasuada had even gone to Elva and asked her if she would use her ability-which allowed her to sense  

other people's pain, as well as any pain they were about to suffer in the immediate future-to overcome  

Murtagh or to surreptitiously gain entrance to the city. The silver-browed girl had laughed at Nasuada  

and sent her away with gibes and insults, saying, "I owe no bond of allegiance to you or anyone else,  

Nasuada. Find some other child to win your battles for you; I'll not do it."

And so, the Varden waited.

As day inexorably followed day, Eragon had watched the men grow sullen and discontent, and Nasuada  

had become increasingly worried. An army, Eragon had learned, was a ravenous, insatiable beast that  

would soon die and separate into its constituent elements unless massive amounts of food were shoveled  

into its many thousands of stomachs upon a regular basis. When marching into new territory, obtaining  

supplies for an army was a simple matter of confiscating food and other essentials from the people they  

conquered, and stripping resources from the surrounding countryside. Like a plague of locusts, the  

Varden left a barren swath of land in their wake, a swath devoid of most everything needed to support  

life.

Once they stopped moving, they soon exhausted the stores of food close at hand and were forced to  

subsist entirely on provisions brought to them from Surda and the several cities they had captured.  

Generous as the inhabitants of Surda were, and rich as the vanquished cities were, the regular deliveries  

of goods were not enough to sustain the Varden for much longer.

Though Eragon knew the warriors were devoted to their cause, he had no doubt that, when faced with  

the prospect of a slow, agonizing death by starvation that would accomplish nothing besides giving  

Galbatorix the satisfaction of gloating over their defeat, most men would elect to flee to some distant  

corner of Alagaësia, where they could live out the rest of their lives in safety from the Empire.

That moment had not yet arrived, but it was fast approaching.

Fear of that fate, Eragon was sure, was what had been keeping Nasuada up at night, so that she  

appeared increasingly haggard each morning, the bags under her eyes like small, sad smiles.

The difficulties they had faced at Dras-Leona made Eragon grateful that Roran had avoided becoming  

similarly bogged down at Aroughs and heightened his admiration and appreciation for what his cousin  

had accomplished at the southern city.He's a braver man than I . Nasuada would disapprove, but  

Eragon was determined that once Roran returned-which, if all went well, would be in just a few  

days-Eragon would once again provide him with a full set of wards. Eragon had already lost too many  

members of his family to the Empire and Galbatorix, and he was not about to let the same doom befall  

Roran.

He paused to let a trio of arguing dwarves cross the path in front of him. The dwarves wore no helms or  

insignia, but he knew they were not of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, for their plaited beards were trimmed with

Page 144

beads-a fashion he had never seen among the Ingeitum. Whatever the dwarves were quarreling about  

was a mystery to him-he could not understand more than a few words of their guttural language-but  

the topic was obviously of all-consuming importance, judging by their loud voices, unrestrained gestures,  

exaggerated expressions, and their failure to notice either him or Saphira standing in the path.

beads-a fashion he had never seen among the Ingeitum. Whatever the dwarves were quarreling about  

was a mystery to him-he could not understand more than a few words of their guttural language-but  

the topic was obviously of all-consuming importance, judging by their loud voices, unrestrained gestures,  

exaggerated expressions, and their failure to notice either him or Saphira standing in the path.

As he and Saphira walked through the camp, Eragon caught sight of Katrina sitting outside her tent,  

knitting clothes for her child-to-be. She greeted him with a raised hand and by calling, "Cousin!"

He replied in kind, as had become their habit since her marriage.

After both he and Saphira enjoyed a leisurely lunch-which involved a fair amount of tearing and  

crunching on Saphira's part-they retired to the patch of soft, sunlit grass next to Eragon's tent. By order  

of Nasuada, the patch was always left open for Saphira's use, a dictate that the Varden observed with  

religious zeal.

There Saphira curled up to doze in the midday warmth, while Eragon fetchedDomia abr Wyrda from  

his saddlebags, then climbed under the overhang of her left wing to nestle in the partially shaded hollow  

between the inner curve of her neck and her muscular foreleg. The light that shone through the folds of  

her wing, as well as that cast off in winking highlights from her scales, painted his skin a weird, purplish  

hue and covered the pages of the book with a smattering of glowing shapes that made it difficult to read  

the thin, angular runes. But he did not mind; the pleasure of sitting with Saphira more than made up for  

the inconvenience.

They sat together for an hour or two, until Saphira had digested her meal and Eragon was tired of  

deciphering the convoluted sentences of Heslant the Monk. Then, bored, they wandered through the  

camp, inspecting the defenses and occasionally exchanging words with the sentinels stationed along the  

perimeter.

Near the eastern edge of the camp, where the bulk of the dwarves were situated, they came across a  

dwarf who was squatting next to a bucket of water, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, molding a  

fist-sized ball of dirt with his hands. By his feet was a puddle of mud and a stick that had been used to stir  

it.

The sight was so incongruous, several moments elapsed before Eragon realized that the dwarf was Orik.

"Derûndânn, Eragon ... Saphira," said Orik without looking up.

"Derûndânn," said Eragon, repeating the traditional dwarvish greeting, and squatted on the other side of  

the puddle. He watched as Orik continued to refine the contours of the ball, smoothing and shaping it  

with the outer curve of his right thumb. Every so often, Orik reached down, grabbed a handful of dry dirt,  

and sprinkled it over the yellowish orb of earth, then gently brushed off the excess.

"I never thought to see the king of the dwarves crouched on the ground, playing in the mud like a child,"  

Eragon said.

Page 145

Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. "And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider staring at me  

while I made an Erôthknurl."

Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. "And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider staring at me  

while I made an Erôthknurl."

"A thardsvergûndnzmal."

"Athardsver -?" Eragon gave up halfway through the word, unable to remember the whole of it, much  

less pronounce it. "And that is ...?"

"Something that appears to be other than what it actually is." Orik raised the ball of dirt. "Like this. This  

is a stone fashioned from earth. Or, rather, so it shall seem when I am done."

"A stone from earth.... Is it magic?"

"No, it is mine own skill. Nothing more."

When Orik failed to explain further, Eragon asked, "How is it done?"

"If you are patient, you will see." Then, after a while, Orik relented and said, "First, you must find some  

dirt."

"A hard task, that."

From under his bushy eyebrows, Orik gave him a look. "Some types of dirt are better than others.  

Sand, for example, will not work. The dirt must have particles of varying size, so that it will stick together  

properly. Also, it should have some clay in it, as this does. But most important, if I do this"-and he  

patted his hand against a bare strip of ground among the clumps of trampled grass-"there must be lots  

of dust in the dirt. See?" He held up his hand, showing Eragon the layer of fine powder that clung to his  

palm.

"Why is that important?"

"Ah," said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose, leaving behind a whitish smear. He resumed rubbing  

the sphere with his hands, turning it so that it would remain symmetrical. "Once you have good dirt, you  

wet it and you mix it like water and flour until you have a nice, thick mud." He nodded at the pool by his  

feet. "From the mud, you form a ball, like so, eh? Then you squeeze it and wring out every drop you can.  

Then you make the ball perfectly round. When it begins to feel sticky, you do as I am doing: you pour  

dirt over it, to draw out more moisture from the interior. This you continue until the ball is dry enough to  

hold its shape, but not so dry that it cracks.

"Mine Erôthknurl is almost to that point. When it gets there, I shall bear it to mine tent and leave it in the  

sun for a goodly while. The light and the warmth will draw out even more moisture from the center; then I  

shall again pour dirt over it and again clean it off. After three or four times, the outside of mine Erôthknurl  

should be as hard as the hide of a Nagra."

"All that just to have a ball of dry mud?" said Eragon, puzzled. Saphira shared his sentiment.

Orik scooped up another handful of dirt. "No, because that's not the end of it. Next is when the dust  

becomes of use. I take it, and I smear the outside of the Erôthknurl with it, which forms a thin, smooth

Page 146

shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to the surface, then dust, then wait,  

then dust, then wait, and so on."

shell. Then I will let the ball rest and wait for more moisture to seep to the surface, then dust, then wait,  

then dust, then wait, and so on."

"Until the dust no longer adheres to the Erôthknurl. The shell it forms is what gives an Erôthknurl its  

beauty. Over the course of a day, it will acquire a brilliant sheen, as if it were made of polished marble.  

With no buffing, no grinding, no magic-with only your heart, head, and hands-you will have made a  

stone out of common earth ... a fragile stone, it is true, but a stone nevertheless."

Despite Orik's insistence, Eragon still found it hard to believe that the mud at his feet could be  

transformed into anything like what Orik had described without the use of magic.

Why are you making one, though, Orik dwarf king?Saphira asked.You must have many  

responsibilities now that you are ruler of your people .

Orik grunted. "I have nothing I must needs do at the moment. My men are ready for battle, but there is  

no battle for us to fight, and it would be bad for them if I were to fuss over them like a mother hen. Nor  

do I want to sit alone in my tent, watching mine beard grow.... Thus the Erôthknurl."

He fell silent then, but it seemed to Eragon that something was bothering Orik, so Eragon held his tongue  

and waited to see if Orik would say anything else. After a minute, Orik cleared his throat and said, "Used  

to be, I could drink and play dice with the others of mine clan, and it mattered not that I was Hrothgar's  

adopted heir. We could still talk and laugh together without it feeling uncomfortable. I asked for no  

favors, nor did I show any. But now it is different. My friends cannot forget that I am their king, and I  

cannot ignore how their behavior has changed toward me."

"That is only to be expected," Eragon pointed out. He empathized with Orik's plight, for he had  

experienced much the same thing since becoming a Rider.

"Perhaps. But knowing it makes it no easier to bear." Orik made an exasperated sound. "Ach, life is a  

strange, cruel journey sometimes.... I admired Hrothgar as a king, but it often seemed to me that he was  

short with those he dealt with when he had no reason to be. Now I understand better why he was the  

way he was." Orik cupped the ball of dirt with both hands and gazed at it, his brow knotted in a scowl.  

"When you met with Grimstborith Gannel in Tarnag, did he explain to you the significance of the  

Erôthknurln?"

"He never mentioned it."

"I suppose there were other matters that needed talking about.... Still, as one of the Ingeitum, and as an  

adopted knurla, you should know the import and symbology of the Erôthknurln. It is not just a way to  

focus the mind, pass the time, and create an interesting keepsake. No. The act of making a stone out of  

earth is a sacred one. By it, we reaffirm our faith in Helzvog's power and offer tribute to him. One should  

approach the task with reverence and purpose. Crafting an Erôthknurl is a form of worship, and the gods  

do not look kindly on those who perform the rites in a frivolous manner.... From stone, flesh; from flesh,  

earth; and from earth, stone again. The wheel turns and we see but a glimpse of the entirety."

Only then did Eragon appreciate the depth of Orik's disquiet. "You ought to have Hvedra with you," he  

said. "She would keep you company and prevent you from becoming so grim. I've never seen you as  

happy as when you were with her at Bregan Hold."

Page 147

The lines around Orik's downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. "Aye.... But she is the grimstcarvlorss  

of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides, I could not rest easy if  

she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or, worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black  

dragon."

The lines around Orik's downcast eyes deepened as he smiled. "Aye.... But she is the grimstcarvlorss  

of the Ingeitum, and she cannot abandon her duties just to comfort me. Besides, I could not rest easy if  

she were within a hundred leagues of Murtagh and Thorn or, worse, Galbatorix and his accursed black  

dragon."

Strong and stout,

Thirteen stars upon his brow,

Living stone sat shaping dead earth into dead stone.

"It doesn't rhyme, but then, you can't expect me to compose proper verse on the spur of the moment. I  

would imagine that a riddle like that would be quite a head-scratcher for most people."

"Humph," said Orik. "Not for a dwarf. Even our children could solve it quick as you please."

A dragon too, said Saphira.

"I suppose you're right," said Eragon.

Then he asked Orik about everything that had happened among the dwarves after he and Saphira had  

left Tronjheim for their second trip to the forest of the elves. Eragon had not had an opportunity to talk  

with Orik for any great length of time since the dwarves had arrived at Dras-Leona, and he was eager to  

hear how his friend had gotten along since assuming the throne.

Orik did not seem to mind explaining the intricacies of the dwarves' politics. Indeed, as he spoke, his  

expression brightened and he became increasingly animated. He spent nearly an hour recounting the  

bickering and maneuvering that had gone on between the dwarf clans prior to assembling their army and  

marching to join the Varden. The clans were a fractious lot, as Eragon well knew, and even as king, Orik  

had difficulty commanding their obedience.

"It's like trying to herd a flock of geese," said Orik. "They're always trying to go off on their own, they  

make an obnoxious noise, and they'll bite your hand first chance they get."

During the course of Orik's narration, Eragon thought to ask about Vermûnd. He had often wondered  

what had become of the dwarf chief who had plotted to assassinate him. He liked to know where his  

enemies were, especially one as dangerous as Vermûnd.

"He returned to his home village of Feldarast," Orik said. "There, by all accounts, he sits and drinks and  

rages about what is and what might have been. But none now listen to him. The knurlan of Az Sweldn  

rak Anhûin are proud and stubborn. In most cases, they would remain loyal to Vermûnd regardless of  

what the other clans might do or say, but attempting to kill a guest is an unforgivable offense. And not all  

of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin hate you like Vermûnd does. I cannot believe that they will agree to remain cut  

off from the rest of their kind just to protect a grimstborith who has lost every scrap of his honor. It may  

take years, but eventually they will turn against him. Already I have heard that many of the clan shun  

Vermûnd, even as they themselves are shunned."

Page 148

"What do you think will happen to him?"

"What do you think will happen to him?"

They continued to talk until Orik had finished the first few stages of shaping his Erôthknurl and was  

ready to take the ball of dirt and set it to rest upon a piece of cloth by his tent to dry. As Orik rose to his  

feet and gathered up his bucket and stick, he said, "I appreciate you being so kind as to listen to me,  

Eragon. And you as well, Saphira. Strange as it may seem, you are the only ones besides Hvedra to  

whom I can talk freely. Everyone else ..." He shrugged. "Bah."

Eragon got to his feet as well. "You're our friend, Orik, whether you are king of the dwarves or not.  

We're always happy to talk with you. And you know, you don't have to worry about us telling others  

what you've said."

"Aye, I know that, Eragon." Orik squinted up at him. "You participate in the goings-on of the world, and  

yet you haven't gotten caught up in all the petty scheming around you."

"It doesn't interest me. Besides, there are more important things to deal with at the moment."

"That's good. A Rider should stand apart from everyone else. Otherwise, how can you judge things for  

yourself? I never used to appreciate the Riders' independence, but now I do, if only for selfish reasons."

"I don't stand entirely apart," said Eragon. "I'm sworn both to you and to Nasuada."

Orik inclined his head. "True enough. But you are not fully part of the Varden-or the Ingeitum either,  

for that matter. Whatever the case may be, I'm glad I can trust you."

A smile crept across Eragon's face. "As am I."

"After all, we're foster brothers, aren't we? And brothers ought to watch each other's backs."

That they should, thought Eragon, though he did not say it out loud. "Foster brothers," he agreed, and  

clapped Orik on the shoulder.

THEWAY OFKNOWING

ater that afternoon, when it seemed increasingly unlikely that the Empire would launch an attack  

from Dras-Leona in the few remaining hours of sunlight, Eragon and Saphira went to the sparring field at  

the rear of the Varden camp.

Page 149

There Eragon met with Arya, as he had done every day since arriving at the city. He asked after her, and  

she answered briefly-she had been stuck in a tiresome conference with Nasuada and King Orrin since  

before dawn. Then Eragon drew his sword and Arya hers, and they took up positions opposite each  

other. For a change, they had agreed beforehand to use shields; it was closer to the reality of actual  

combat, and it introduced a welcome element of variety into their duels.

There Eragon met with Arya, as he had done every day since arriving at the city. He asked after her, and  

she answered briefly-she had been stuck in a tiresome conference with Nasuada and King Orrin since  

before dawn. Then Eragon drew his sword and Arya hers, and they took up positions opposite each  

other. For a change, they had agreed beforehand to use shields; it was closer to the reality of actual  

combat, and it introduced a welcome element of variety into their duels.

This was Eragon's favorite part of their fights. There was something profoundly intimate about staring  

into Arya's eyes, without blinking, without wavering, and having her stare back at him with the same  

degree of focus and intensity. It could be disconcerting, but he enjoyed the sense of connection it created  

between them.

Arya initiated the first attack, and within the span of a second, Eragon found himself standing hunched  

over at an awkward angle, her blade pressed against the left side of his neck, tugging painfully at his skin.  

Eragon remained frozen until Arya saw fit to release the pressure and allow him to stand upright.

"That was sloppy," she said.

"How is it you keep besting me?" he growled, far from pleased.

"Because," she replied, and feinted toward his right shoulder, causing him to raise his shield and leap  

backward in alarm, "I've had over a hundred years of practice. It would be odd if Iweren't better than  

you, now wouldn't it? You should be proud that you've managed to mark me at all. Few can."

Brisingr whistled through the air as Eragon struck at her lead thigh. A loudclang resounded as she  

stopped the blow with her shield. She countered with a clever twisting stab that caught him on his sword  

wrist and sent icy needles shooting up his arm and shoulder to the base of his skull.

Wincing, he disengaged, seeking a temporary reprieve. One of the challenges of fighting elves was that  

because of their speed and strength, they could lunge forward and engage an enemy at distances far  

greater than any human could. Therefore, to be safe from Arya, he had to move nearly a hundred feet  

away from her.

Before he could put much distance between them, Arya sprang after him, taking two flying steps, her  

hair streaming behind her. Eragon swung at her while she was still airborne, but she turned so that his  

sword passed along the length of her body, without touching it. Then she slipped the edge of her shield  

underneath his and yanked it away, leaving his chest completely exposed. Fast as could be, she brought  

her sword up and again pressed it against his neck, this time underneath his chin.

She held him in that position, her large, wide-set eyes only inches away from his. There was a ferocity  

and intentness to her expression that he was uncertain how to interpret, but it gave him pause.

A shadow seemed to flit across Arya's face then, and she lowered her sword and stepped away.

Eragon rubbed his throat. "If you know so much about swordsmanship," he said, "then why can't you  

teach me to be better?"

Her emerald eyes burned with even greater force. "I'm trying," she said, "but the problem is not here."  

She tapped her sword against his right arm. "The problem is here." She tapped his helm, metal clinking

Page 150

against metal. "And I don't know how else to teach you what you need to learn except by showing you  

your mistakes over and over again until you stop making them." She rapped his helm once more. "Even if  

it means I have to beat you black-and-blue in order to do it."

against metal. "And I don't know how else to teach you what you need to learn except by showing you  

your mistakes over and over again until you stop making them." She rapped his helm once more. "Even if  

it means I have to beat you black-and-blue in order to do it."

Wheeling away from Arya, Eragon stomped over to a spot some ten yards distant.

"Well?" he said through clenched teeth. "Get on with it, then." And he settled into a low crouch as he  

readied himself for another onslaught.

Arya narrowed her eyes to slits, which gave her angled face an evil look. "Very well."

They rushed at each other, both shouting war cries, and the field echoed with the sounds of their furious  

clash. Match after match they fought, until they were tired, sweaty, and coated with dust, and Eragon  

was striped with many painful welts. And still they continued to dash themselves against one another with  

a grim-faced determination that had hitherto been absent from their duels. Neither of them asked to end  

their brutal, bruising contest, and neither of them offered to.

Saphira watched from the side of the field, where she lay sprawled across the springy mat of grass. For  

the most part, she kept her thoughts to herself, so as to avoid distracting Eragon, but every now and then  

she made a short observation about his technique or Arya's, observations that Eragon invariably found  

helpful. Also, he suspected that she had intervened on more than one occasion to save him from a  

particularly dangerous blow, for at times his arms and legs seemed to move slightly faster than they  

should have, or even slightly before he intended to move them himself, and when that happened, he felt a  

tickle in the back of his mind that he knew meant Saphira was meddling with some part of his  

consciousness.

At last he asked her to stop.I have to be able to do this myself, Saphira , he said.You can't help me  

every time I need it .

I can try.

I know. I feel the same way about you. But this is my mountain to climb, not yours.

The edge of her lip twitched.Why climb when you can fly? You'll never get anywhere on those short  

little legs of yours .

That's not true and you know it. Besides, if I were flying, it would be on borrowed wings, and I  

would gain nothing by it other than the cheap thrill of an unearned victory.

Victory is victory and dead is dead, however it is achieved.

Saphira ..., he said warningly.

Little one.

Still, to his relief, she left him to his own devices after that, though she continued to watch him with

Page 151

unceasing vigilance.

unceasing vigilance.

The longer he fought with Arya, the more frustrated Eragon became. He won two of their  

matches-barely, frantically, with desperate ploys that succeeded more by luck than skill, and that he  

never would have attempted in a real duel unless he no longer cared for his own safety-but except for  

those isolated victories, Arya continued to beat him with depressing ease.

Eventually, Eragon's anger and frustration boiled over, and all sense of proportion deserted him.  

Inspired by the methods that had granted him his few successes, Eragon lifted his right arm and prepared  

tothrow Brisingr at Arya, even as he might a battle-ax.

Just at that moment, another mind touched Eragon's, a mind that Eragon instantly knew belonged to  

neither Arya nor Saphira, nor any of the other elves, for it was unmistakably male, and it was  

unmistakably dragon. Eragon recoiled from the contact, racing to order his thoughts so as to ward off  

what he feared was an attack by Thorn. But before he could, an immense voice echoed through the  

shadowed byways of his consciousness, like the sound of a mountain shifting under its own weight:

Enough, said Glaedr.

Eragon stiffened and stumbled forward a half step, rising onto the balls of his feet, as he stopped himself  

from throwing Brisingr. He saw or sensed Arya, Saphira, and Blödhgarm's spellcasters react as well,  

stirring with surprise, and he knew that they too had heard Glaedr.

The dragon's mind felt much the same as before-old and unfathomable and torn with grief. But for the  

first time since Oromis's death at Gil'ead, Glaedr seemed possessed of an urge to do something other  

than sink ever deeper into the all-enveloping morass of his private torments.

Glaedr-elda!Eragon and Saphira said at the same time.

How are you-

Are you all right-

Did you-

Others spoke as well-Arya; Blödhgarm; two more of the elves, whom Eragon could not identify-and  

their mass of conflicting words clattered together in an incomprehensible discord.

Enough, Glaedr repeated, sounding both weary and exasperated.Do you wish to attract unwanted  

attention?

At once everyone fell silent as they waited to hear what the golden dragon would say next. Excited,  

Eragon exchanged glances with Arya.

Page 152

Glaedr did not speak immediately, but watched them for another few minutes, his presence weighing  

heavily against Eragon's consciousness, even as Eragon was sure it did with the others.

Glaedr did not speak immediately, but watched them for another few minutes, his presence weighing  

heavily against Eragon's consciousness, even as Eragon was sure it did with the others.

A host of answers leaped to the forefront of Eragon's mind: that he enjoyed crossing blades with Arya,  

despite the aggravation it caused him; that he wanted to be the very best sword fighter he could-the  

very best in the world, if possible; that the exercise helped calm his nerves and shape his body; and many  

more reasons besides. He tried to suppress the welter of thoughts, both to preserve some measure of  

privacy and to avoid inundating Glaedr with unwanted information, thus confirming the dragon's opinion  

about his lack of discipline. He did not entirely succeed, however, and a faint air of disappointment  

emanated from Glaedr.

Eragon chose his strongest arguments.If I can hold Galbatorix off with my mind-even if I can't  

beat him-if I can just hold him off, then this may still be decided by the sword. In any case, the  

king isn't the only enemy we should be worried about: there's Murtagh, for one, and who knows  

what other kinds of men or creatures Galbatorix has in his service? I wasn't able to defeat Durza  

by myself, nor Varaug, nor even Murtagh. Always I've had help. But I can't rely on Arya or  

Saphira or Blödhgarm to rescue me every time I get into trouble. I have to be better with a blade,  

and yet I can't seem to make any progress, no matter how hard I try .

Varaug?Glaedr queried.I have not heard that name before .

It fell to Eragon, then, to tell Glaedr about the capture of Feinster and how he and Arya had killed the  

newly born Shade even as Oromis and Glaedr had met their deaths-differing kinds of deaths, but both  

still mortal ends-while battling in the skies over Gil'ead. Eragon also summarized the Varden's activities  

thereafter, for he realized that Glaedr had kept himself so isolated, he had little knowledge of them. The  

account took Eragon several minutes to deliver, during which time he and the elves stood frozen on the  

field, staring past each other with unseeing eyes, their attention turned inward as they concentrated on the  

rapid exchange of thoughts, images, and feelings.

Another long silence followed as Glaedr digested what he had learned. When he again deigned to speak,  

it was with a tinge of amusement:You are overly ambitious if your goal is to be able to kill Shades  

with impunity. Even the oldest and wisest of the Riders would have hesitated to attack a Shade  

alone. You have already survived encounters with two of them, which is two more than most. Be  

grateful you have been so lucky and leave it at that. Trying to outmatch a Shade is like trying to  

fly higher than the sun .

Yes, replied Eragon,but our foes are as strong as Shades or even stronger, and Galbatorix may  

create more of them just to slow our progress. He uses them carelessly, without heed for the  

destruction they could cause throughout the land .

Ebrithil, said Arya,he is right. Our enemies are deadly in the extreme ... as you well know -this  

she added in a gentle tone-and Eragon is not at the level he needs to be. To prepare for what lies

Page 153

before us, he has to attain mastery. I have done my best to teach him, but mastery ultimately must  

come from within, not without.

before us, he has to attain mastery. I have done my best to teach him, but mastery ultimately must  

come from within, not without.

As before, Glaedr was slow to respond.Nor has Eragon mastered his thoughts, as he must also do.  

Neither of these abilities, mental or physical, is of much use alone, but of the two, the mental is  

more important. One can win a battle against both a spellcaster and a swordsman with the mind  

alone. Your mind and your body ought to be in balance, butif you must choose which of them to  

train, you should choose your mind. Arya ... Blödhgarm ... Yaela ... you know this is true. Why  

have none of you taken it upon yourselves to continue Eragon's instruction in this area?

Arya cast her eyes at the ground, somewhat like a chastised child, while the fur on Blödhgarm's  

shoulders rippled and stood on end, and he pulled back his lips to reveal the tips of his sharp white fangs.

It was Blödhgarm who finally dared reply. Speaking wholly in the ancient language, the first to do so, he  

said,Arya is here as the ambassador of our people. I and my band are here to protect the lives of  

Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer, and it has been a difficult and time-consuming  

task. We have all tried to help Eragon, but it is not our place to train a Rider, nor would we  

presume to attempt it when one of his rightful masters was still alive and present ... even if that  

master was neglecting his duty .

Dark clouds of anger gathered within Glaedr, like massive thunderheads building on the horizon. Eragon  

distanced himself from Glaedr's consciousness, wary of the dragon's wrath. Glaedr was no longer  

capable of physically harming anyone, but he was still incredibly dangerous, and should he lose control  

and lash out with his mind, none of them would be able to withstand his might.

Blödhgarm's rudeness and insensitivity initially shocked Eragon-he had never heard an elf speak to a  

dragon like that before-but after a moment's reflection, Eragon realized that Blödhgarm must have done  

it to draw Glaedr out and prevent him from retreating into his shell of misery. Eragon admired the elf's  

courage, but he wondered whether insulting Glaedr was really the best approach. It certainly wasn't the  

safest plan.

The billowing thunderheads swelled in size, illuminated by brief, lightning-like flashes, as Glaedr's mind  

jumped from one thought to another.You have overstepped your bounds, elf , he growled, also in the  

ancient language.My actions are not for you to question. You cannot even begin to comprehend  

what I have lost. If it were not for Eragonand Saphira and my duty to them, I would have gone  

mad long ago. So do not accuse me of negligence, Blödhgarm, son of Ildrid, unless you wish to  

test yourself against the last of the high Old Ones .

Baring his teeth even more, Blödhgarm hissed. In spite of that, Eragon detected a hint of satisfaction in  

the elf's visage. To Eragon's dismay, Blödhgarm pressed on, saying,Then do not blame us for failing  

to fulfill what are yourresponsibilities, not ours, Old One. Our whole race mourns your loss, but  

you cannot expect us to make allowances for your self-pity when we are at war with the most  

deadly enemy in our history-the same enemy who exterminated nearly every one of your kind,  

and who also killed your Rider .

Glaedr's fury was volcanic. Black and terrible, it battered against Eragon with such force, he felt as if the  

fabric of his being might split asunder, like a sail caught in the wind. On the other side of the field, he saw  

men drop their weapons and clutch at their heads, grimacing with pain.

Page 154

My self-pity?said Glaedr, forcing out each word, and each word sounding like a pronouncement of  

doom. In the recesses of the dragon's mind, Eragon sensed something unpleasant taking shape that, if  

allowed to reach fruition, might be the cause of much sorrow and regret.

My self-pity?said Glaedr, forcing out each word, and each word sounding like a pronouncement of  

doom. In the recesses of the dragon's mind, Eragon sensed something unpleasant taking shape that, if  

allowed to reach fruition, might be the cause of much sorrow and regret.

Glaedr rumbled ominously, but he did not ignore, interrupt, or insult her. Indeed, her praise seemed to  

please him, even if only a little. After all, as Eragon reflected, if there was one thing dragons were  

susceptible to, it was flattery, as Saphira was well aware.

Without pausing to allow Glaedr to respond, Saphira said,Since you no longer have use of your  

wings, let me offer my own as a replacement. The air is calm, the sky is clear, and it would be a  

joy to fly highabove the ground, higher than even the eagles dare soar. After so long trapped  

within your heart of hearts, you must yearn to leave all this behind and feel the currents of air  

rising beneath you once more .

The black storm within Glaedr abated somewhat, although it remained vast and threatening, teetering on  

the edge of renewed violence.That ... would be pleasant .

Then we shall fly together soon. But, Master?

Yes, youngling?

There is something I wish to ask of you first.

Then ask it.

Will you help Eragon with his swordsmanship?Canyou help him? He isn't as skilled as he needs to  

be, and I don't want to lose my Rider . Saphira remained dignified throughout, but there was a note of  

pleading in her voice that caused Eragon's throat to tighten.

The thunderheads collapsed inward on themselves, leaving behind a bare gray landscape that seemed  

inexpressibly sad to Eragon. Glaedr paused. Strange, half-seen shapes moved slowly along the edge of  

the landscape-hulking monoliths that Eragon had no desire to meet up close.

Very well, Glaedr said at long last.I will do what I can for your Rider, but after we are done on this  

field, he must let me teach him as I see fit .

Agreed, said Saphira. Eragon saw Arya and the other elves relax, as if they had been holding their  

breath.

Eragon withdrew from the others for a moment as Trianna and several other magicians who served in the  

Varden contacted him, each demanding to know what they had just felt tearing at their minds and what  

had so upset the men and animals in the camp. Trianna overrode the others, saying,Are we under  

attack, Shadeslayer? Is it Thorn? Is it Shruikan?! Her panic was so strong, it made Eragon want to  

throw down his sword and shield and run for safety.

No, everything is fine, he said as evenly as he could. Glaedr's existence was still a secret to most of the

Page 155

Varden, including Trianna and the magicians who answered to her. Eragon wanted to keep it that way,  

lest word of the golden dragon should reach the Empire's spies. Lying while in communication with  

another person's mind was difficult in the extreme-since it was nearly impossible to avoid thinking about  

whatever it was you wanted to keep hidden-so Eragon kept the conversation as short as he could.The  

elves and I were practicing magic. I'll explain it later, but there's no need to be worried .

Varden, including Trianna and the magicians who answered to her. Eragon wanted to keep it that way,  

lest word of the golden dragon should reach the Empire's spies. Lying while in communication with  

another person's mind was difficult in the extreme-since it was nearly impossible to avoid thinking about  

whatever it was you wanted to keep hidden-so Eragon kept the conversation as short as he could.The  

elves and I were practicing magic. I'll explain it later, but there's no need to be worried .

Arya must have noticed a change in his bearing, for she walked over to him and, in a low murmur,  

asked, "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," Eragon replied in a similar undertone. He nodded toward the men who were picking up their  

weapons. "I had to answer a few questions."

"Ah. You didn't tell them who-"

"Of course not."

Take up your positions as before, Glaedr rumbled, and Eragon and Arya separated and paced off  

twenty feet in either direction.

Knowing that it might be a mistake but unable to restrain himself, Eragon said,Master, can you really  

teach me what I need to know before we reach Urû'baen? So little time is left to us, I-

I can teach you right now, if you will listen to me, said Glaedr.But you will have to listen harder  

than ever before .

I am listening, Master. Still, Eragon could not help wondering how much the dragon really knew about  

sword fighting. Glaedr would have learned a great deal from Oromis, even as Saphira had learned from  

Eragon, but despite those shared experiences, Glaedr had never held a sword himself-how could he  

have? Glaedr instructing Eragon on fencing would be like Eragon instructing a dragon on how to navigate  

the thermals rising off the side of a mountain; Eragon could do it, but he would not be able to explain it as  

well as Saphira, for his knowledge was secondhand, and no amount of abstract contemplation could  

overcome that disadvantage.

Eragon kept his doubts to himself, but something of them must have seeped past his barriers to Glaedr,  

because the dragon made an amused sound-or rather, he imitated one within his mind, the habits of the  

body being hard to forget-and said,All great fighting is the same, Eragon, even as all great  

warriors are the same. Past a certain point, it does not matter whether you wield a sword, a claw,  

a tooth, or a tail. It is true, you must be capable with your weapon, but anyone with the time and  

the inclination can acquire technical proficiency. To achieve greatness, though, that requires  

artistry. That requires imagination and thoughtfulness, and it is those qualities that the best  

warriors share, even if, on the surface, they appear completely different .

Glaedr fell silent for a moment, then said,Now, what was it I told you before?

Eragon did not have to even stop to consider.That I had to learn to see what I was looking at. And  

I've tried, Master. I have .

But still you do not see. Look at Arya. Why has she been able to beat you again and again?

Page 156

Because she understands you, Eragon. She knows who you are and how you think, and that is  

what allows her to defeat you so consistently. Why is it Murtagh was able to trounce you on the  

Burning Plains, even though he was nowhere near as fast or strong as you?

Because she understands you, Eragon. She knows who you are and how you think, and that is  

what allows her to defeat you so consistently. Why is it Murtagh was able to trounce you on the  

Burning Plains, even though he was nowhere near as fast or strong as you?

And how is it he succeeded in wounding you in the hip when last you met, and yet you were only  

able to give him a scratch on the cheek? I will tell you, Eragon. It was not because you were tired  

and he was not. No, it was because he understands you, Eragon, but you do not understand him.  

Murtagh knows more than you, and thus he has power over you, as does Arya.

And still Glaedr spoke:Look at her, Eragon. Look at her well. She sees you for who you are, but do  

you see her in return? Do you see her clearly enough to defeat her in battle?

Eragon locked eyes with Arya and found within them a combination of determination and defensiveness,  

as if she was challenging him to attempt to pry open her secrets, but she was also afraid of what would  

happen if he did. Doubt welled up inside Eragon. Did he really know her as well as he thought? Or had  

he deceived himself into mistaking the outer for the inner?

You have allowed yourself to become angrier than you should, said Glaedr softly.Anger has its  

place, but it will not help you here. The way of the warrior is the way of knowing. If that  

knowledge requires you to use anger, then you use anger, but you cannot wrest forth knowledge  

by losing your temper. Pain and frustration will be your only reward if you try .

Instead, you must strive to be calm, even if a hundred ravening enemies are snapping at your  

heels. Empty your mind and allow it to become like a tranquil pool that reflects everything around  

it and yet remains untouched by its surroundings. Understanding will come to you in that  

emptiness, when you are free of irrational fears about victory and defeat, life and death.

You cannot predict every eventuality, and you cannot guarantee success every time you face an  

enemy, but by seeing all and discounting nothing, you may adapt without hesitation to any  

change. The warrior who can adapt the easiest to the unexpected is the warrior who will live the  

longest.

So, look at Arya, see what you are looking at, and then take the action you deem most  

appropriate. And once you are in motion, do not allow your thoughts to distract you. Think  

without thinking, so that you act as if out of instinct and not reason. Go now, and try.

Eragon took a minute to collect himself and consider everything he knew about Arya: her likes and  

dislikes, her habits and mannerisms, the important events of her life, what she feared and what she hoped  

for, and most importantly, her underlying temperament-that which dictated her approach to life ... and  

to fighting. All that he considered, and from it he attempted to divine the essence of her personality. It  

was a daunting task, especially since he made an effort to view her not as he usually did-as a beautiful  

woman he admired and longed for-but as the person she actually was, whole and complete and  

separate from his own needs and wants.

He drew what conclusions he could within such a brief span of time, although he worried that his  

observations were childish and overly simplistic. Then he set aside his uncertainty, stepped forward, and  

raised his sword and shield.

He knew that Arya would be expecting him to try something different, so he opened their duel as he had

Page 157

twice before: shuffling in a diagonal toward her right shoulder, as if to circumvent her shield and attack  

her flank where it was unguarded. The ruse would not fool her, but it would keep her guessing as to what  

he was actually up to, and the longer he could maintain that uncertainty, the better.

twice before: shuffling in a diagonal toward her right shoulder, as if to circumvent her shield and attack  

her flank where it was unguarded. The ruse would not fool her, but it would keep her guessing as to what  

he was actually up to, and the longer he could maintain that uncertainty, the better.

The motion caused a nearly indiscernible hitch in his otherwise smooth stride, but Arya spotted the  

irregularity and leaped at him, a clarion yell ringing from her lips.

Their swords glanced off one another, once, twice, and then Eragon turned and-possessed of a sudden  

and deep-seated conviction that Arya was going to strike next at his head-he stabbed at her chest, fast  

as he could, aiming for a spot near her breastbone that she would have to leave open if she swung at his  

helm.

His intuition was right, but his reckoning was off.

He stabbed so quickly, Arya did not have an opportunity to move her arm out of the way, and the hilt of  

her sword deflected Brisingr's dark blue tip and sent it sailing harmlessly past her cheek.

An instant later, the world tilted around Eragon and bursts of red and orange sparks appeared scattered  

across his field of vision. He staggered and dropped to one knee, supporting himself with both hands on  

the ground. A dull roaring filled his ears.

The sound gradually subsided, at which point Glaedr said,Do not try to move quickly, Eragon. Do not  

try to move slowly. Only move at the correct moment and your blow will appear neither fast nor  

slow buteffortless. Timing is everything in battle. You must pay close attention to the patterns and  

rhythms of your opponents' bodies: where they are strong, where they are weak, where stiff and  

where flexible. Match those rhythms when it serves your purpose and confuse them when it does  

not, and you will be able to shape the flow of the battle as it pleases you. This you should  

understand thoroughly. Fix it in your mind and think on it more later.... Now try again!

Glaring at Arya, Eragon got back to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and, for what seemed the  

hundredth time, assumed an on-guard position. His welts and bruises flared with renewed pain, making  

him feel like an arthritic old man.

Arya tossed back her hair and smiled at him, baring her strong white teeth.

The gesture had no effect on him. He was focused on the task at hand and was not about to allow  

himself to fall for the same trick twice.

Even before the smile began to fade from her lips, he was sprinting forward, Brisingr held low and to the  

side while he led with his shield. As he hoped, the position of his sword tempted Arya into a rash,  

preemptive strike: a slashing blow that would have taken him in the collarbone if it had landed.

Eragon ducked underneath the blow, letting it bounce off his shield, and brought Brisingr up and around,  

as if to cut her across the legs and hips. She blocked him with her shield, then shoved him away,  

knocking the air from his lungs.

A brief lull followed as they circled each other, both searching for an opening to exploit. The air between  

them was fraught with tension as he studied her and she him, their movements quick and jerky, almost

Page 158

birdlike, from the overabundance of energy coursing through their veins.

birdlike, from the overabundance of energy coursing through their veins.

He struck at her and she parried, their blades moving with such speed, they were nearly invisible. As  

they exchanged blows, Eragon kept his eyes riveted on hers, but he also strove-as Glaedr had  

advised-to observe the rhythms and patterns of her body, while also remembering who she was and  

how she was likely to act and react. He wanted to win so badly, he felt as if he might burst if he didn't.

And yet, despite all his efforts, Arya caught him by surprise with a reverse pommel strike to his ribs.

Eragon stopped and swore an oath.

That was better, said Glaedr.Much better. Your timing was almost perfect .

But not quite.

No, not quite. You are still too angry, and your mind is still too cluttered. Keep hold of the things  

you need to remember, but don't let them distract you from what is happening. Find a place of  

calm within yourself, and let the concerns of the world wash over you without sweeping you away  

with them. You should feel as you did when Oromis had you listen to the thoughts of the creatures  

in the forest. Then you were aware of everything that was going on around you, yet you were not  

fixated on any one detail. Do not look at Arya's eyes alone. Your focus is too narrow, too detailed.

But Brom told me-

There are many ways of using the eyes. Brom had his, but it was not the most flexible of styles,  

nor the most appropriate for large battles. He spent most of his life fighting one on one, or in  

small groups, and his habits reflected that. Better to see widely than to see too closely and allow  

some feature of place or situation to catch you unawares. Do you understand?

Yes, Master.

Then once more, and this time, allow yourself to relax and broaden your perception.

Eragon again reviewed his knowledge of Arya. When he had decided on a plan, he closed his eyes,  

slowed his breathing, and sank deep within himself. His fears and anxieties gradually drained out of him,  

leaving behind a profound emptiness that dulled the pain of his injuries and gave him a sense of unusual  

clarity. Though he did not lose interest in winning, the prospect of defeat no longer troubled him. What  

would be would be, and he would not struggle unnecessarily against the decrees of fate.

"Ready?" asked Arya when he opened his eyes again.

"Ready."

They took up their starting positions, then stayed there, motionless, each of them waiting for the other to  

attack first. The sun was to Eragon's right, which meant that if he could maneuver Arya in the opposite  

direction, the light would be in her eyes. He had tried before, without success, but now he thought of a  

way he might be able to manage it.

He knew that Arya was confident she could beat him. He was sure she did not disregard his abilities, but

Page 159

however conscious she was of his skill and his desire to improve, she had won the overwhelming majority  

of their matches. Those experiences had shown her that he would be easy to defeat, even if, intellectually,  

she might know better. Her confidence, therefore, was also her weakness.

however conscious she was of his skill and his desire to improve, she had won the overwhelming majority  

of their matches. Those experiences had shown her that he would be easy to defeat, even if, intellectually,  

she might know better. Her confidence, therefore, was also her weakness.

He sidled forward a few feet and smiled at Arya even as she had smiled at him. Her face stayed  

impressively blank. A moment later, she charged him, as if she was going to tackle him and drive him to  

the ground.

He sprang backward, edging to the right, so as to begin guiding her in the direction he wanted.

Arya stopped short several yards away from him and remained as still as a wild animal caught in a  

clearing. Then she traced a half circle in front of her with her sword while she stared at him. He suspected  

that having Glaedr watching them made her all the more determined to give a good showing of herself.

She shocked him then by uttering a soft, catlike growl. Like her smile before, the growl was a weapon  

for unsettling him. And it worked, but only partly, for he had come to expect such gestures, if not that  

particular one.

Arya crossed the intervening distance with a single bound and began swinging at him with heavy, looping  

blows that he blocked with his shield. He let her attack without opposition, as if her blows were too  

strong for him to do anything more than defend himself. With every loud, painful jolt to his arm and  

shoulder, he retreated farther to the right, stumbling now and then to increase the impression of being  

driven back.

And still he remained calm and composed-empty.

He knew that the opportune moment was going to arrive even before it did, and once it had, he acted  

without thought or hesitation, without attempting to be fast or slow, seeking only to fulfill the potential of  

that single, perfect instant.

As Arya's sword descended toward him in a flashing arc, he pivoted to the right, sidestepping the blade  

while also putting the sun squarely at his back.

The tip of her sword buried itself in the ground with a solidthunk .

Arya turned her head, so as to keep him in sight, and made the mistake of looking directly into the sun.  

She squinted, and her pupils contracted to small, dark spots.

While she was blinded, Eragon stabbed Brisingr underneath her left arm, poking her in the ribs. He could  

have struck her on the nape of her neck-and he would have if they had really been fighting-but he  

refrained, for even with a dulled sword, such a blow could kill.

Arya let out a sharp cry as Brisingr made contact, and she fell back several steps. She stood with her  

arm pressed against her side and her brow furrowed with pain and stared at him with an odd expression.

Excellent!Glaedr crowed.And again!

Eragon felt a momentary glow of satisfaction; then he released his hold on the emotion and returned to

Page 160

his previous state of detached watchfulness.

his previous state of detached watchfulness.

The duel lasted for only a few seconds, though it was still long enough for them to exchange a flurry of  

blows. Shields cracked, chunks of torn sod flew over the ground, and sword rang against sword as they  

flowed from one stance to another, their bodies twisting through the air like twin columns of smoke.

In the end, the result was the same as before. Eragon slipped past Arya's guard with an adroit bit of  

footwork and a flick of his wrist, which resulted in him slashing Arya across her chest, from shoulder to  

sternum.

The blow staggered Arya and she collapsed to one knee, where she remained, scowling and breathing  

heavily through pinched nostrils. Her cheeks grew unusually pale, save for a crimson blotch that appeared  

high on each side.

Again!ordered Glaedr.

Eragon and Arya complied without question. With his two victories, Eragon's weariness had diminished,  

though he could tell that the opposite was true for Arya.

The next match had no clear winner; Arya rallied and managed to foil all of Eragon's tricks and traps,  

even as he did hers. On and on they fought, until at last they were both so tired, neither was able to  

continue, and they stood leaning on swords that were too heavy to lift, panting, sweat dripping from their  

faces.

Again, said Glaedr in a low voice.

Eragon grimaced as he yanked Brisingr out of the ground. The more exhausted he became, the harder it  

was to keep his mind uncluttered and to ignore the complaints of his aching body. Also, he found it  

increasingly difficult to maintain an even temper and avoid falling prey to the foul mood that usually beset  

him when he needed rest. Learning to deal with that challenge, he supposed, was part of what Glaedr  

was trying to teach him.

His shoulders were burning too much for him to hold his sword and shield in front of him. Instead,  

Eragon let them hang by his waist and hoped he could lift them fast enough when needed. Arya did the  

same.

They shuffled toward each other in a crude imitation of their earlier grace.

Eragon was utterly spent, and yet he refused to give up. In a way that he did not entirely understand,  

their sparring seemed to have become something more than just a test of arms; it had become a test of  

who he was: of his character, of his strength, and of his resilience. Nor was it Glaedr who was testing  

him, or so he felt, but rather Arya. It was as if she wanted something from him, as if she wanted him to  

prove ... what, he knew not, but he was determined to acquit himself as well as he could. However long  

she was willing to keep sparring, so too was he, no matter how much it hurt.

Page 161

A drop of sweat rolled into his left eye. He blinked, and Arya lunged at him, shouting.  

Once more they engaged in their deadly dance, and once more they fought to a standstill. Fatigue made  

them clumsy, yet they moved together with a rough harmony that prevented either from gaining victory.

Eventually, they ended up standing face to face, their swords locked at the hilts, pushing at each other  

with what little remained of their strength.  

Then, as they stood there, struggling back and forth without avail, Eragon said in a low, fierce voice,

"I ... see ... you."  

A bright spark appeared in Arya's eyes, then vanished just as quickly.

A HEART-TO-HEART

laedr had them fight twice more. Each duel was shorter than the last, and each resulted in a  

draw, which frustrated the golden dragon more than it did Eragon or Arya.

Glaedr would have kept them sparring until it became abundantly clear who was the better warrior, but  

by the end of the last duel, they were both so tired that they dropped to the ground and lay side by side,  

heaving for air, and even Glaedr had to admit that it would be counterproductive, if not downright  

harmful, for them to continue.

Once they had recovered enough to stand and walk, Glaedr summoned them to Eragon's tent.

First, with energy from Saphira, they healed their more painful injuries. Then they returned their ruined  

shields to the Varden's weapon master, Fredric, who provided them with replacements, although only  

after lecturing them on how they ought to take better care of their equipment.

When they arrived at the tent, they found Nasuada waiting for them, along with her usual accompaniment  

of guards. "It's about time," she said in a tart voice. "If the two of you are done trying to batter each  

other to pieces, we need to talk." Without another word, she ducked inside.

Blödhgarm and his fellow spellcasters arranged themselves in a large circle around the tent, which  

Eragon could tell made Nasuada's guards uneasy.

Eragon and Arya followed Nasuada into the tent; then Saphira surprised them by pushing the front of her  

head past the entrance flaps and promptly filling the cramped space with the smell of smoke and burnt  

meat.

The sudden appearance of Saphira's scaly snout took Nasuada aback, but she quickly recovered.  

Addressing herself to Eragon, she said, "That was Glaedr I felt, wasn't it?"

Page 162

He glanced toward the front of the tent, hoping that her guards were too far away to hear, then nodded.  

"It was."

He glanced toward the front of the tent, hoping that her guards were too far away to hear, then nodded.  

"It was."

Eragon hesitated and looked to Arya for guidance. "I don't know," he said. "He still hasn't entirely  

recovered. He may not want to-"

I will speak with you, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, Glaedr said, his voice echoing in their heads.Ask  

of me what you will, then leave us to our work; there is much that still needs to be done in order  

to prepare Eragon for the challenges ahead .

Eragon had never seen Nasuada look awestruck before, but now she did."Where?" she mouthed, and  

spread her hands.

He pointed at a patch of dirt by his bed.

Nasuada raised her eyebrows; then she nodded, and drawing herself up, she formally greeted Glaedr.  

An exchange of pleasantries followed, during the course of which Nasuada inquired after Glaedr's health  

and asked if there was anything the Varden could provide him with. In response to the first  

question-which had made Eragon nervous-Glaedr politely explained that his health was just fine, thank  

you; and as far as the second matter went, he needed nothing from the Varden, though he appreciated  

her concern.I no longer eat , he said;I no longer drink; and I no longer sleep as you would  

understand it. My only pleasure now, my only indulgence, lies in contemplating how I might bring  

about Galbatorix's downfall .

"That," said Nasuada, "I can understand, for I feel much the same."

Then she asked Glaedr if he had any advice as to how the Varden could capture Dras-Leona without it  

costing them an unacceptable amount of men and materiel, as well as, in her words, "handing over  

Eragon and Saphira to the Empire, like so many trussed-up chickens."

She spent some time explaining the situation to Glaedr in greater specificity, whereupon, after due  

consideration, he said,I have no easy solution for you, Nasuada. I will continue to think on it, but at  

the moment, I cannot see a way clear for the Varden. If Murtagh and Thorn were by themselves, I  

might easily overcome their minds. However, Galbatorix has given them too many Eldunarí for  

me to do that. Even with Eragon, Saphira, and the elves to help, victory would be no sure thing .

Visibly disappointed, Nasuada was silent for a brief while; then she pressed her hands flat against the  

front of her dress and thanked Glaedr for his time. She bade them farewell and took her leave, stepping  

carefully around Saphira's head so as not to touch her.

Eragon relaxed somewhat as he sat on his cot, while Arya seated herself on a short, three-legged stool.  

He wiped his palms on the knees of his trousers-for his hands felt sticky, as did the rest of him-then  

offered Arya a drink from his waterskin, which she gratefully accepted. When she was finished, he  

gulped down several mouthfuls himself. Their sparring had left him ravenous. The water stifled the growls  

and rumbles coming from his stomach, but he hoped that Glaedr would not detain them for much longer.  

The sun had nearly set, and he wanted to get a hot meal from the Varden's cooks before they damped  

their fires and turned in for the night. Otherwise, he knew he would end up gnawing on stale bread, dried

Page 163

strips of meat, moldy sheep cheese, and if he was lucky, a raw onion or two-hardly an appealing  

prospect.

strips of meat, moldy sheep cheese, and if he was lucky, a raw onion or two-hardly an appealing  

prospect.

They soon progressed beyond maxims to applied practice. Glaedr started by testing Eragon's defenses  

with attacks of ever-increasing strength, which then led to them engaging in all-out battles where they  

each struggled to obtain dominance, even if for only a moment, over the other's thoughts.

While they fought, Eragon lay on his back with his eyes closed, all of his energies concentrated inward  

on the tempest that raged between him and Glaedr. His earlier exertions had left him weak and  

thick-headed-whereas the golden dragon was fresh and well rested, in addition to being immensely  

powerful-and that made it difficult for Eragon to do much more than foil Glaedr's attacks. Nevertheless,  

he managed to hold his own reasonably well, knowing that, in a real fight, the winner would have  

undoubtedly been Glaedr.

Fortunately, Glaedr made some allowances for Eragon's condition, although, as he said,You must be  

ready to defend your innermost self at any given moment, even when you are sleeping. It may very  

well be that you will end up facing Galbatorix or Murtagh when you are as exhausted as you are  

now .

After two more bouts, Glaedr withdrew to the role of a-very vocal-spectator, while he had Arya  

take his place as Eragon's antagonist. She was just as tired as Eragon, but he quickly found that, when it  

came to a wizard's duel, she was more than his equal. It did not surprise him. The one time before they  

had clashed in their minds, she had almost killed him, and that was when she was still drugged from her  

captivity in Gil'ead. Glaedr's thoughts were disciplined and focused, but even he could not match the  

ironbound control Arya exerted over her consciousness.

Her self-mastery was a trait Eragon had noticed was common among the elves. Foremost in that regard  

had been Oromis, who, it seemed to Eragon, had been in such perfect command of himself, never the  

slightest doubt or worry had bothered him. Eragon considered the elves' restraint an innate characteristic  

of their race, as well as a natural outcome of their rigorous upbringing, education, and use of the ancient  

language. Speaking and thinking in a language that prevented one from lying-and every word of which  

contained the potential to unlock a spell-discouraged carelessness in thought or speech and fostered an  

aversion to allowing one's emotions to sweep one away. As a rule, then, elves possessed far more  

self-control than the members of other races.

He and Arya wrestled with their minds for a few minutes-he seeking to escape her all-encompassing  

grip, she seeking to pin and hold him so that she could impose her will on his thoughts. She caught him  

several times, but he always wiggled free after a second or two, though he knew, had she meant him  

harm, it would have been too late to save himself.

And the whole time their minds were touching, Eragon was aware of the wild strains of music that  

wafted through the dark spaces of Arya's consciousness. They lured him away from his own body and  

threatened to snare him in a web of strange and eerie melodies that had no counterparts among earthly  

songs. He would have happily succumbed to the bewitchment of the music had it not been for the  

distraction of Arya's attacks and the knowledge that humans did not often fare well if they became too  

fascinated with the workings of an elf's mind. He might escape unscathed. He was a Rider, after all. He  

was different. But it was a risk he was not willing to take, not so long as he valued his sanity. He had

Page 164

heard that delving into Blödhgarm's mind had reduced Nasuada's guard Garven to a slack-jawed  

dreamer.

heard that delving into Blödhgarm's mind had reduced Nasuada's guard Garven to a slack-jawed  

dreamer.

Then Glaedr had Saphira join the fray, sometimes in opposition to Eragon and sometimes in support of  

him, for as the elder dragon said,You must be as skilled in this as Eragon, Brightscales . The addition  

of Saphira substantially altered the outcome of their mental struggles. Together she and Eragon were able  

to fend off Arya with regularity, if not ease. Their combined might even allowed them to subdue Arya on  

two separate occasions. When Saphira was allied with Arya, however, the two of them so outstripped  

Eragon that he gave up any attempt at offense and, instead, retreated deep inside himself, curling into a  

tight ball like a wounded animal while he recited scraps of verse and waited for the waves of mental  

energy they hurled at him to subside.

Lastly, Glaedr had them pair off-he with Arya, and Eragon with Saphira-and they fought a duel like  

that, as if they were two sets of Riders and dragons met in combat. For the first few strenuous minutes,  

they were fairly matched, but in the end, Glaedr's strength, experience, and cunning combined with  

Arya's rigorous proficiency proved too much for Eragon and Saphira to overcome, and they had no  

choice but to concede defeat.

Afterward, Eragon sensed discontent emanating from Glaedr. Stung by it, he said,We'll do better  

tomorrow, Master .

Glaedr's mood darkened further. Even he seemed weary from their practice.You did well enough,  

youngling. I could not have asked any more from either of you had you been placed under my  

wing as apprentices in Vroengard. However, it is impossible for you to learn what you need to  

learn in a matter of days or weeks. Time gushes between our teeth like water, and soon it will all  

be gone. It takes years to master the art of fighting with your mind: years and decades and  

centuries, and even then, there is still more to learn, more to discover-about yourself, about your  

enemies, and about the very underpinnings of the world . With an angry growl, he fell silent.

Then we will learn what we can and let fate decide the rest, said Eragon.Besides, Galbatorix may  

have had a hundred years to train his mind, but it has also been over a hundred years since you  

last taught him. He's sure to have forgotten somethingin the interim. With you helping us, I know  

we can beat him .

Glaedr snorted.Your tongue grows ever smoother, Eragon Shadeslayer . Nevertheless, he sounded  

pleased. He admonished them to eat and rest, and then he withdrew from their minds and said no more.

Eragon was sure that the golden dragon was still watching them, but Eragon could no longer feel his  

presence, and an unexpected sense of emptiness settled over him.

A chill crept through his limbs, and he shivered.

He, Saphira, and Arya sat in the darkening tent, none of them willing to speak. Then, rousing himself,  

Eragon said, "He seems better." His voice creaked from disuse, and he again reached for the waterskin.

"This is good for him," said Arya. "You are good for him. Without something to give him purpose, his  

grief would have killed him. That he has survived at all is ... impressive. I admire him for it. Few  

beings-human, elf, or dragon-could continue to function rationally after such a loss."

Page 165

"Brom did."

"Brom did."

If we kill Galbatorix and Shruikan, how do you think Glaedr will react?Saphira asked.Will he  

keep going, or will he just ... stop?

Arya's pupils reflected a shimmer of light as she looked past Eragon toward Saphira. "Only time will tell.  

I hope not, but if we are triumphant in Urû'baen, it may very well be that Glaedr will find he is no longer  

able to continue on his own, without Oromis."

"We can't just let him give up!"

I agree.

"It is not our place to stop him if he decides to enter the void," Arya said sternly. "The choice is his to  

make, and his alone."

"Yes, but we can reason with him and try to help him see that life is still worth living."

She was still for a while, her face solemn; then she said, "I do not want him to die. No elf does.  

However, if every waking moment is a torment to him, then won't it be better for him to seek release?"

Neither Eragon nor Saphira had an answer for her.

The three of them continued to discuss the day's events for a short while longer; then Saphira pulled her  

head out of the tent and went to sit on the neighboring patch of grass.I feel like a fox with her head  

stuck down a rabbit hole , she complained.It makes my scales itch, not being able to see if someone  

is creeping up on me .

Eragon expected Arya to leave as well, but to his surprise, she stayed, seemingly content to sit and talk  

with him about this and that. He was only too eager to comply. His earlier hunger had vanished during his  

bouts of mental combat with her, Saphira, and Glaedr, and in any case, he was more than willing to forgo  

a hot meal in exchange for the pleasure of her company.

Night closed in around them, and the camp grew ever quieter as their conversation meandered from one  

topic to another. Eragon felt giddy from exhaustion and excitement-almost as if he had drunk too much  

mead-and he noticed that Arya also seemed more at ease than normal. They talked of many things: of  

Glaedr and of their sparring; of the siege of Dras-Leona and what might be done about it; and of other,  

less important matters, such as the crane Arya had seen hunting among the rushes by the edge of the  

lake, and the scale Saphira had lost from her nose, and how the season was turning and the days were  

again growing colder. But always they returned to the one topic that was ever present in their thoughts,  

and that was Galbatorix and what awaited them in Urû'baen.

While they speculated, as they had so many times before, about the types of magical traps Galbatorix  

might have set for them and how best to avoid them, Eragon thought of Saphira's question about Glaedr,  

and he said, "Arya?"

"Yes?" She drew the word out, her voice rising and falling with a faint lilt.

"What do you want to do once this is all over?"If we're still alive, that is .

Page 166

"What doyou want to do?"

"What doyou want to do?"

Arya drew one leg up onto the stool, wrapped her arms around it, and rested her chin on her knee. In  

the dim half-light of the tent, her face appeared to float against a featureless black background, like an  

apparition conjured out of the night.

"I have spent more time among humans and dwarves than I have among the älfakyn," she said, using the  

elves' name in the ancient language. "I have grown used to it, and I would not want to return to live in  

Ellesméra. Too little happens there; centuries can slip by without notice while you sit and stare at the  

stars. No, I think I will continue to serve my mother as her ambassador. The reason I first left Du  

Weldenvarden was because I wanted to help right the balance of the world. As you said, there will still  

be much that needs doing if we manage to topple Galbatorix, much that needs putting right, and I would  

be a part of it."

"Ah." It was not exactly what he had hoped she might say, but at least it presented the possibility that  

they would not entirely lose contact after Urû'baen, and that he would still be able to see her now and  

then.

If Arya noticed his discontent, she gave no sign of it.

They talked for another few minutes, then Arya made her excuses and rose to leave.

As she stepped past him, Eragon reached toward her, as if to stop her, then quickly drew back his hand.  

"Wait," he said softly, unsure of what he hoped for, but hoping nevertheless. The beat of his heart  

increased, pounding in his ears, and his cheeks grew warm.

Arya paused with her back to him by the entrance of the tent. "Good night, Eragon," she said. Then she  

slipped out between the entrance flaps and vanished into the night, leaving him to sit alone in the dark.

DISCOVERY

he next three days passed quickly for Eragon, if not for the rest of the Varden, who remained  

mired in lethargy. The standoff with Dras-Leona continued unabated, although there was some  

excitement when Thorn altered his customary location from above the front gates to a section of the  

rampart several hundred feet to the right. After much discussion-and after consulting extensively with

Page 167

Saphira-Nasuada and her advisers concluded that Thorn had relocated for no other reason than  

comfort; the other section of rampart was somewhat flatter and longer. Aside from that, the siege  

lumbered on without change.

Saphira-Nasuada and her advisers concluded that Thorn had relocated for no other reason than  

comfort; the other section of rampart was somewhat flatter and longer. Aside from that, the siege  

lumbered on without change.

Eragon was pleased to find that he was finally able to hold his own when dueling with the elves. But it  

was mentally taxing, for if his concentration lapsed for even a moment, he would end up with a sword  

jabbed in his ribs or pressed against his throat.

With his lessons from Glaedr, he made what would have been considered exemplary progress under  

normal circumstances, but given the situation, both he and Glaedr were frustrated with the pace of his  

learning.

On the second day, during his morning lesson with Glaedr, Eragon thought to say,Master, when I first  

arrived at the Varden in Farthen Dûr, the Twins tested me-they tested my knowledge of the  

ancient language, and of magic in general .

You told this to Oromis. Why repeat it to me now?

Because, it occurred to me ... the Twins asked me to summon the true form of a silver ring. At the  

time, I didn't know how. Arya explained it to me later: how, with the ancient language, you can  

conjure up the essence of any thing or creature. Yet Oromis never spoke of it, and I was  

wondering ... why not?

Glaedr seemed to sigh.Summoning the true form of an object is a difficult kind of magic. In order  

for it to work, you must understand everything of importance about the object in question-even  

as you must in order to guess the true name of a person or animal. Furthermore, it's of little  

practical value. And it's dangerous. Very dangerous. The spell cannot be structured as a  

continuing process that you can end at any time. Either you succeed in summoning the true form  

of an object ... or you fail and die. There was no reason for Oromis to have you try anything so  

risky, nor were you advanced enough in your studies to even discuss the topic .

Eragon shuddered inwardly as he realized just how angry Arya must have been with the Twins to  

summon the true form of the ring they held. Then he said,I would like to try it now .

Eragon felt the full force of Glaedr's attention focused on him.Why?

I need to know if I have that level of understanding, even if only for one small thing.

Again: why?

Unable to explain with words, Eragon poured his jumble of thoughts and feelings into Glaedr's  

consciousness. When he finished, Glaedr was silent for a while, digesting the flow of information.Am I  

right to say , began the dragon,that you equate this with defeating Galbatorix? You believe that if  

you can do this and live, then you might be able to defeat the king?

Page 168

Yes, said Eragon, relieved. He had been unable to articulate his motivation as clearly as the dragon, but  

that was exactly it.

Yes, said Eragon, relieved. He had been unable to articulate his motivation as clearly as the dragon, but  

that was exactly it.

Yes, Master.

It may kill you, Glaedr reminded him.

I know.

Eragon!exclaimed Saphira, her thoughts faint in his mind. She was flying high above the camp, watching  

for possible danger while he studied with Glaedr.It's far too dangerous. I won't allow it .

I have to do this, he replied quietly.

To Saphira, but also to Eragon, Glaedr said,If he insists, then it is best he tries where I can watch. If  

his knowledge fails him, I may be able to supply the needed information and save him .

Saphira growled-an angry, ripping sound that filled Eragon's mind-and then, from outside the tent,  

Eragon heard a fearsome rush of air and startled cries from men and elves as she dove to the ground.  

She landed with such force, the tent and everything in it shook.

A few seconds later, she stuck her head into the tent and glared at Eragon. She was panting, and the  

wind from her nostrils ruffled his hair and made his eyes water from the odor of burnt meat.You're as  

thick-headed as a Kull , she said.

No more than you.

Her lip curled in a hint of a snarl.Why are we waiting? If you must do this, let us be done with it!

What will you choose to summon?asked Glaedr.It must be something you are intimately familiar  

with .

Eragon let his gaze drift over the interior of the tent, then down to the sapphire ring he wore on his right  

hand.Aren ... He had rarely taken the ring off since Ajihad had given it to him from Brom. It had  

become a part of his body as surely as his arms or legs. During the hours he had spent looking at it, he  

had memorized every curve and facet, and if he closed his eyes, he could call up an image that was a  

perfect reproduction of the actual object. But for all that, there was much he didnot know about the  

ring-its history, how the elves had made it, and, ultimately, what spells might or might not be woven into  

its fabric.

No ... not Aren.

Then his gaze slid from the ring to the pommel of Brisingr, where the sword stood leaning against the  

corner of his cot. "Brisingr," he murmured.

A muffledwhump emanated from the blade, and the sword rose a half inch out of its scabbard, as if  

pushed from beneath, and small tongues of flame leaped up from the mouth of the sheath, licking the  

underside of the hilt. The flames vanished and the sword slid back into the scabbard as Eragon quickly  

ended the unintentional spell.

Page 169

Brisingr, he thought, utterly certain of his choice. It had been Rhunön's skill that had crafted the sword,  

but it was he who had wielded the tools, and he had been joined with the elf smith's mind throughout the  

process. If there was any one object in the world he understood through and through, it was his sword.

Brisingr, he thought, utterly certain of his choice. It had been Rhunön's skill that had crafted the sword,  

but it was he who had wielded the tools, and he had been joined with the elf smith's mind throughout the  

process. If there was any one object in the world he understood through and through, it was his sword.

Eragon nodded, then caught himself as he remembered the golden dragon could not see him.Yes,  

Master.... A question, though: is Brisingrthe true name of the sword, and if not, do I need its true  

name for the spell to work?

Brisingris the name of fire, as you well know. The true name of your sword is undoubtedly  

something far more complicated, although it might very well include brisingrwithin its description.  

If you wish, you could refer to the sword by its true name, but you could just as easily call it  

Swordand achieve the same result, so long as you maintain the proper knowledge at the forefront  

of your mind. The name is merely a label for the knowledge, and you do not need the label in  

order to make use of the knowledge. It is a subtle distinction, but an important one. Do you  

understand?

I do.

Then proceed as you will.

Eragon took a moment to collect himself. Then he found the nub in the back of his mind and reached  

through it to tap his body's store of energy. Channeling that energy into the word he spoke, while also  

thinking about everything he knew of the sword, he said clearly and distinctly:

"Brisingr!"

Eragon felt his strength ebb precipitously. Alarmed, he tried to speak, tried to move, but the spell bound  

him in place. He could not even blink or breathe.

Unlike before, the sheathed sword did not burst into flame; it wavered, like a reflection in water. Then, in  

the air next to the weapon, a transparent apparition appeared: a perfect, glowing likeness of Brisingr free  

of its sheath. As well made as was the sword itself-and Eragon had never found so much as a single  

flaw-the duplicate floating before him was even more refined. It was as if he was seeing theidea of the  

sword, an idea that not even Rhunön, with all her experience working metal, could hope to capture.

As soon as the manifestation became visible, Eragon was again able to breathe and move. He  

maintained the spell for several seconds, so he could marvel at the beauty of the summoning, and then he  

let the spell slip free of his grasp and the ghostly sword slowly faded into oblivion.

In its absence, the inside of the tent seemed unexpectedly dark.

Only then did Eragon again become aware of Saphira and Glaedr pressing against his consciousness,  

watching with steadfast attentiveness every thought that flickered through his mind. Both of the dragons  

were as tense as Eragon had ever felt them. If he were to poke Saphira, he guessed she would be so  

startled, she would twist herself in circles.

And if I were to poke you, nothing would be left but a smear, she commented.

Page 170

Eragon smiled and lowered himself onto the cot, tired.

Eragon smiled and lowered himself onto the cot, tired.

Eragon shivered and rubbed his arms, trying to dispel the cold that had crept into his limbs.Agreed,  

Master . It was not an experience he was eager to replicate. Still, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He  

had proven without a doubt that there was at least one thing in Alagaësia that he could do as well as  

anyone possibly could.

And that gave him hope.

On the morning of the third day, Roran arrived back at the Varden, along with his companions: tired,  

wounded, and travel-worn. Roran's return stirred the Varden from their torpor for a few hours-he and  

the others with him were given a hero's welcome-but an air of boredom soon settled over the majority  

of the Varden again.

Eragon was relieved to see Roran. He had known his cousin was safe, as he had scryed him several  

times while he was gone. Nevertheless, seeing him in person freed Eragon of an anxiety that, until that  

very moment, he had not realized he was carrying. Roran was the only family he had left-Murtagh did  

not count, as far as Eragon was concerned-and Eragon could not bear the thought of losing him.

Now, seeing Roran up close, Eragon was shocked by his appearance. He had expected Roran and the  

others to be exhausted, but Roran seemed far more haggard than his companions; he looked as if he had  

aged five years over the course of the trip. His eyes were red and dark-ringed, his brow was lined, and  

he moved stiffly, as if every inch of his body was covered in bruises. And then there was his beard, which  

had been burned half off and which now had a mottled, mangy appearance.

The five men-one less than their original number-went first to visit the healers of Du Vrangr Gata,  

where the spellcasters attended to their wounds. Then they presented themselves to Nasuada in her  

pavilion. After commending them for their bravery, Nasuada dismissed all of the men except Roran,  

whom she asked to deliver a detailed account of his journey to and from Aroughs, as well as the capture  

of the city itself. The telling took some time, but both Nasuada and Eragon-who was standing by her  

right hand-listened with rapt and sometimes horrified attention while Roran spoke. When he finished,  

Nasuada surprised both him and Eragon by announcing that she was placing Roran in charge of one of  

the Varden's battalions.

Eragon expected the news to please Roran. Instead, he saw the lines in his cousin's face deepen and his  

brows draw together in a frown. Roran made no objection or complaint, however, but bowed and said in  

his rough voice, "As you wish, Lady Nasuada."

Later, Eragon walked Roran to his tent, where Katrina was waiting for them. She greeted Roran with  

such an obvious display of emotion that Eragon averted his eyes, embarrassed.

With Saphira, the three of them dined together, but Eragon and Saphira excused themselves as soon as  

they could, for it was obvious that Roran had no energy for company and Katrina wished to have him for  

herself.

As he and Saphira wandered through the camp in the deepening dusk, Eragon heard someone behind  

him shout, "Eragon! Eragon! Wait a moment!"

Page 171

He turned to see the thin, gangly figure of the scholar Jeod running toward him, strands of hair flying  

around his lean face. In his left hand, Jeod clutched a ragged scrap of parchment.

He turned to see the thin, gangly figure of the scholar Jeod running toward him, strands of hair flying  

around his lean face. In his left hand, Jeod clutched a ragged scrap of parchment.

"This!" exclaimed Jeod, his eyes gleaming. He held up the parchment and shook it. "I've done it again,  

Eragon! I've found a way!" In the fading light, the scar on his scalp and temple appeared startlingly pale  

against his tanned skin.

"You've donewhat again? You've foundwhat way? Slow down; you're not making sense!"

Jeod glanced around furtively, then he leaned close to Eragon and whispered, "All my reading and  

searching has paid off. I've discovered a hidden tunnel that leads straight into Dras-Leona!"

DECISIONS

xplain it to me again," said Nasuada.

Eragon shifted his weight, impatient, but he held his tongue.

From the piles of scrolls and books in front of him, Jeod picked up a slim volume bound in red leather  

and began his narrative for the third time: "Some five hundred years ago, as best I can tell-"

Jörmundur interrupted him with a motion of his hand. "Leave out your qualifiers. We know this is  

speculation."

Jeod began again: "Some five hundred years ago, Queen Forna sent Erst Graybeard to Dras-Leona, or  

rather what was tobecome Dras-Leona."

"And why did she send him?" asked Nasuada while she toyed with the fringe of her sleeve.

"The dwarves were in the midst of a clan war, and Forna hoped that she could secure the support of our  

race by helping King Radgar with the planning and construction of the fortifications for the city, even as  

the dwarves engineered the defenses for Aroughs."

Nasuada rolled a strand of cloth between her fingers. "And then Dolgrath Halfstave killed Forna...."

"Aye. And Erst Graybeard had no choice but to return to the Beor Mountains as fast as he could, to  

defend his clan from Halfstave's predations. But"-Jeod held up a finger, then opened the red  

book-"before he left, it seems Erst did start on his work. King Radgar's chief adviser, Lord Yardley,  

wrote in his memoirs that Erst had begun to draw up plans for the sewer system underneath the center of  

the city, since that would affect how the fortifications would be built."

Page 172

From his place at the far end of the table that filled the middle of Nasuada's pavilion, Orik nodded and  

said, "That's true enough. You have to work out where and how the weight is distributed and determine  

what's appropriate for the kind of earth you're dealing with. Otherwise, you're liable to have cave-ins."

From his place at the far end of the table that filled the middle of Nasuada's pavilion, Orik nodded and  

said, "That's true enough. You have to work out where and how the weight is distributed and determine  

what's appropriate for the kind of earth you're dealing with. Otherwise, you're liable to have cave-ins."

Jeod lowered the book. "Now, what were they excavating? I was unable to find any further mention of  

subterranean activities in or around Dras-Leona, until-" Putting down the red volume, he selected  

another book, this one a massive, wood-paneled tome nearly a foot thick. "I happened to be perusing  

The Acts of Taradas and Other Mysteries of Occult Phenomena as Recorded Throughout the Ages  

of Men, Dwarves, and the Most Ancient Elves when-"

"It is a work filled with mistakes," said Arya. She stood by the left side of the table, leaning on both  

hands over a map of the city. "The author knew little of my people, and what he did not know, he  

invented."

"That may be," said Jeod, "but he knew a great deal about humans, and it is humans we are interested  

in." Jeod opened the book close to the middle and gently lowered the upper half to the table, so it lay  

flat. "During his investigations, Othman spent some time in this region. He mainly studied Helgrind and the  

strange happenings associated with it, but he also had this to say about Dras-Leona:The people of the  

city also often complain of peculiar sounds and odors wafting up from under their streets and  

floors, especially at night, which they attribute to ghosts and spirits and other uncanny creatures,  

but if they are spirits, they are unlike any I have heard of before, as spirits elsewhere seem to  

avoid enclosed spaces. "

Jeod closed the book. "Fortunately, Othman was nothing if not thorough, and he marked the locations of  

the sounds on a map of Dras-Leona, where, as you can see, they form a nearly straight line through the  

old part of the city."

"And you think this indicates the presence of a tunnel," said Nasuada. It was a statement, not a question.

"I do," said Jeod, bobbing his head.

Sitting next to Nasuada, King Orrin, who had said little, spoke. "Nothing you have shown us so far,  

Goodman Jeod, has yet to prove that this is actually a tunnel. If there is a space under the city, it might  

very well be a cellar or a catacomb or some other chamber that only leads to the building above. Even if  

itis a tunnel, we do not know if it exits anywhere outside of Dras-Leona, nor, assuming its existence,  

where it would lead. To the heart of the palace, perhaps? What's more, by your own account, it's likely  

the construction of this hypothetical tunnel was never completed in the first place."

"It seems unlikely it could be anythingbut a tunnel, given its shape, Your Majesty," said Jeod. "No cellar  

or catacomb would be so narrow or long. As for whether it was completed ... we know it was never  

used for its intended purpose, but we also know that it lasted at least up until Othman's time, which  

means the tunnel or passageway or what-have-you must have been finished tosome degree, otherwise  

the seep of water would have destroyed it long ago."

"What of the exit, then-or the entrance, if you will?" asked the king.

Page 173

Jeod scrabbled among the piles of scrolls for a few moments before pulling out another map of  

Dras-Leona, this one showing a portion of the surrounding landscape. "That I can't be sure about, but if  

it does lead out of the city, then it would exit somewhere around here-" He placed his index finger on a  

spot close to the eastern side of the city. Most of the buildings outside the walls that protected the heart  

of Dras-Leona were located on the western side of the city, next to the lake. This meant that the location  

Jeod was pointing at, though empty land, was closer to the center of Dras-Leona than one could get from  

any other direction without encountering buildings. "But it's impossible to tell without going there to look  

for it in person."

Jeod scrabbled among the piles of scrolls for a few moments before pulling out another map of  

Dras-Leona, this one showing a portion of the surrounding landscape. "That I can't be sure about, but if  

it does lead out of the city, then it would exit somewhere around here-" He placed his index finger on a  

spot close to the eastern side of the city. Most of the buildings outside the walls that protected the heart  

of Dras-Leona were located on the western side of the city, next to the lake. This meant that the location  

Jeod was pointing at, though empty land, was closer to the center of Dras-Leona than one could get from  

any other direction without encountering buildings. "But it's impossible to tell without going there to look  

for it in person."

"You are to be congratulated on your research, Goodman Jeod," said Nasuada. "You may have once  

again performed a great service for the Varden." She rose from her high-backed chair and walked over  

to look at the map. The hem of her dress rustled as it dragged across the ground. "If we send a scout to  

investigate, we risk alerting the Empire to our interest in that area. Assuming the tunnel exists, it would be  

of little value to us then; Murtagh and Thorn would be expecting us on the other end." She looked at  

Jeod. "How wide do you think this tunnel would be? How many men could fit in it?"

"I couldn't say. It might be-"

Orik cleared his throat, then said, "The earth here is soft and claylike, with a fair bit of silt layered  

throughout it-horrible for tunneling. If Erst had any sense, he wouldn't have planned to have one large  

channel carry away the city's waste; he would have laid down several smaller passageways, to reduce  

the likelihood of a cave-in. I'd guess that none of them would be wider than a yard or so."

"Too narrow for more than a single man to pass through at a time," said Jeod.

"Too narrow for more than a single knurla," added Orik.

Nasuada returned to her seat and stared at the map with unfocused eyes, as if she were gazing at  

something far away.

After a few moments of silence, Eragon said, "I could search for the tunnel. I know how to hide myself  

with magic; the sentries would never see me."

"Perhaps," murmured Nasuada. "But I still don't like the idea of having you or anyone else running  

about. The likelihood of the Empire noticing is too high. What if Murtagh is watching? Could you fool  

him? Do you even know what he is capable of now?" She shook her head. "No, we must act as if the  

tunnel exists and make our decisions accordingly. If events prove otherwise, it won't have cost us  

anything, but if the tunnelis there ... it should allow us to capture Dras-Leona once and for all."

"What have you in mind?" asked King Orrin in a tone of caution.

"Something bold; something ... unexpected."

Eragon snorted softly. "Perhaps you should consult Roran, then."

"I have no need of Roran's help in devising my plans, Eragon."

Nasuada fell silent again, and everyone in the pavilion, including Eragon, waited to see what she would

Page 174

come up with. At last she stirred and said, "This: we send a small team of warriors to open the gates from  

the inside."

come up with. At last she stirred and said, "This: we send a small team of warriors to open the gates from  

the inside."

Before the discussion could devolve, Eragon said, "I can do it."

The words had an immediate, chilling effect on the conversation.

Eragon expected Nasuada to reject his suggestion out of hand, but she surprised him by considering it.  

Then she surprised him further when she said, "Very well."

All the arguments Eragon had built up fell away as he stared at Nasuada with astonishment. She had  

obviously followed the same chain of reasoning as he had.

The tent erupted in a confusion of overlapping voices as everyone began to speak at once. Arya won  

out over the din: "Nasuada, you cannot allow Eragon to endanger himself so. It would be  

unconscionable. Send some of Blödhgarm's spellcasters instead; I know they would agree to help, and  

they are as mighty warriors as any you can find, including Eragon."

Nasuada shook her head. "None of Galbatorix's men would dare kill Eragon-not Murtagh, not the  

king's pet magicians, not even the lowest of soldiers. We should use that to our advantage. Besides,  

Eragon is our strongest spellcaster, and it may require a great deal of strength to force open the gates. Of  

all of us, he has the best chance of success."

"What if he is captured, though? He can't hold his own against Murtagh. You know that!"

"We'll distract Murtagh and Thorn, and that will give Eragon the opportunity he needs."

Arya lifted her chin. "How? How will you distract them?"

"We'll make as though to attack Dras-Leona from the south. Saphira will fly around the city, setting  

buildings on fire and killing soldiers on the walls. Thorn and Murtagh will have no choice but to give  

chase, especially since it will appear as if Eragon is riding Saphira the whole time. Blödhgarm and his  

fellow spellcasters can conjure up a facsimile of Eragon, as they did before. As long as Murtagh doesn't  

get too close, he'll never discover our subterfuge."

"You are determined in this?"

"I am."

Arya's face hardened. "Then I will accompany Eragon."

Relief seeped through Eragon. He had hoped she would go with him, but he had been uncertain whether  

to ask, for fear she would refuse.

Nasuada sighed. "You are Islanzadí's daughter. I would not like to place you in such danger. If you  

were to die ... Remember how your mother reacted when she thought Durza had killed you. We cannot

Page 175

afford to lose the help of your people."

afford to lose the help of your people."

Nasuada shook her head. "No, you can only take one. Murtagh is familiar with the number of elves who  

have been protecting Eragon. If he notices that two or more are missing, he may suspect a trap of some  

sort. In any event, Saphira will need as much help as she can get if she's to keep out of Murtagh's  

grasp."

"Three people are not enough to attempt such a mission," insisted Arya. "We would be unable to ensure  

Eragon's safety, much less open the gates."

"Then one of Du Vrangr Gata can go with you as well."

A hint of derision colored Arya's expression. "None of your spellcasters are strong or skilled enough.  

We'll be outnumbered a hundred to one, or worse. Both ordinary swordsmen and trained magicians will  

be arrayed against us. Only elves or Riders-"

"Or Shades," Orik rumbled.

"Or Shades," Arya conceded, though Eragon could tell she was irritated. "Only those could hope to  

prevail against such odds. And even then it is no sure thing. Let us take two of Blödhgarm's spellcasters.  

No one else is fit for the task, not among the Varden."

"Oh, and what am I, chopped liver?"

Everyone turned to look, surprised, as Angela stepped forward from a corner at the back of the tent.  

Eragon had not even suspected she was there.

"What a strange expression," said the herbalist. "Who would compare themselves to chopped liver in  

the first place? If youhave to choose an organ, why not pick a gallbladder or a thymus gland instead?  

Much more interesting than a liver. Or what about chopped t-" She smiled. "Well, I suppose that's not  

important." She stopped in front of Arya and looked up at her. "Will you object ifI accompany you, 

Älfa? I'm not a member of the Varden, not strictly speaking, but I'm still willing to round out this quartet  

of yours."

Much to Eragon's surprise, Arya bowed her head and said, "Of course, wise one. I meant no offense. It  

would be an honor to have you with us."

"Good!" exclaimed Angela. "That is, assumingyou don't mind," she said, directing her words to  

Nasuada.

Appearing somewhat bemused, Nasuada shook her head. "If you are willing, and neither Eragon nor  

Arya objects, then I can think of no reason why you shouldn't go. I can't imagine why you'd want to,  

though."

Angela tossed her curls. "Do you expect me to explain every decision I make? ... Oh, very well, if it'll  

satisfy your curiosity, let's say I have a grudge against the priests of Helgrind, and I'd like the chance to  

do them some mischief. And besides, if Murtagh puts in an appearance, I have a trick or two up my

Page 176

sleeve that might give him a bit of a turn."  

"We should ask Elva to go with us as well," said Eragon. "If anyone can help us avoid danger ..."  

Nasuada frowned. "Last we spoke, she made her position clear enough. I'll not go bowing and scraping

sleeve that might give him a bit of a turn."  

"We should ask Elva to go with us as well," said Eragon. "If anyone can help us avoid danger ..."  

Nasuada frowned. "Last we spoke, she made her position clear enough. I'll not go bowing and scraping

abruptly said, "Do as you wish. I dislike the thought of sending a child-even one as gifted as Elva-into

battle. However, I suppose she is more than capable of protecting herself."  

"As long as the pain of those around her doesn't overwhelm her," said Angela. "The last few battles  

have left her curled in a ball, barely able to move or breathe."

Nasuada stilled her fingers and peered at Eragon with a serious expression. "She's unpredictable. If she  

does choose to go along, be careful of her, Eragon."

"I will," he promised.  

Then Nasuada began to discuss questions of logistics with Orrin and Orik, and Eragon withdrew  

somewhat from the conversation, for he had little to contribute.

In the privacy of his mind, he reached out to Saphira, who had been listening, through him, to the  

goings-on.Well? he asked.What do you think? You've been awfully quiet. I thought for sure you  

would say something when Nasuada proposed sneaking into Dras-Leona .

I said nothing because I had nothing to say. It is a good plan.  

You agree with her?!  

We are no longer awkward younglings, Eragon. Our enemies may be fearsome, but so are we. It

is time we remind them of that.  

Does it bother you that we'll be apart?  

Of course it bothers me, she growled.Wherever you go, enemies flock to you like flies to flesh.

However, you are not as helpless as you once were . And she almost seemed to purr.  

Me, helpless?he said with mock outrage.  

Only a little bit. But your bite is more dangerous than before.  

So is yours.  

Mmm.... I go to hunt. A wing-breaking storm is building, and I'll not have a chance to eat again

until after we attack.  

Fly safely, he said.

Page 177

As he felt her presence receding from him, Eragon returned his attention to the conversation within the  

tent, for he knew his life, and that of Saphira, would depend on the decisions Nasuada, Orik, and Orrin  

would make.

As he felt her presence receding from him, Eragon returned his attention to the conversation within the  

tent, for he knew his life, and that of Saphira, would depend on the decisions Nasuada, Orik, and Orrin  

would make.

ragon rolled his shoulders, trying to get his mail hauberk to rest comfortably under the tunic he wore to  

hide the armor.

Darkness lay all around them, heavy and oppressive. A thick layer of clouds obscured the moon and the  

stars. Without the red werelight Angela held in the palm of her hand, even Eragon and the elves would  

have been unable to see.

The air was humid, and once or twice, Eragon felt a few cold drops of rain strike his cheeks.

Elva had laughed and refused when he had asked for her help. He had argued with her long and hard,  

but to no avail. Saphira had even intervened, flying down to the tent where the witch-child was staying  

and placing her massive head just feet away from the girl, forcing her to look into one of Saphira's  

brilliant, unblinking eyes.

Elva had not had the temerity to laugh then, but she remained obdurate in her refusal. Her stubbornness  

frustrated Eragon. Still, he could not help but admire her strength of character; to say no to both a Rider  

and a dragon was no small thing. Then again, she had endured an incredible amount of pain in her short  

life, and the experience had hardened her to a degree rarely seen even in the most jaded of warriors.

Beside him, Arya fastened a long cloak around her neck. Eragon wore one as well, as did Angela and  

the black-haired elf Wyrden, whom Blödhgarm had chosen to accompany them. The cloaks were  

needed to protect them against the night chill, as well as to conceal their weapons from anyone they might  

encounter in the city, if they got that far.

Nasuada, Jörmundur, and Saphira had accompanied them to the edge of the camp, where they now  

stood. Among the tents, the men of the Varden, dwarves, and Urgals were busy preparing to march  

forth.

"Don't forget," said Nasuada, her breath steaming in front of her, "if you can't reach the gates by dawn,  

find somewhere to wait until tomorrow morning, and we'll try again then."

"We may not have the luxury of waiting," said Arya.

Nasuada rubbed her arms and nodded. She appeared unusually worried. "I know. Either way, we'll be  

ready to attack as soon as you contact us, no matter the time of day. Your safety is more important than  

capturing Dras-Leona. Remember that." Her gaze drifted toward Eragon as she spoke.

"We should be off," said Wyrden. "The night grows old."

Eragon pressed his forehead against Saphira for a moment.Good hunting , she said softly.

Page 178

And you as well.

And you as well.

Angela dimmed the light in her palm until it was barely bright enough for Eragon to see his feet. He had  

to strain his eyes to spot rocks and branches that lay in the way.

They walked in silence for nearly an hour, at which point the herbalist stopped and whispered, "We're  

here, as best I can tell. I'm fairly good at reckoning distances, but we might be off by more than a  

thousand feet. It's hard to be certain of anything in this gloom."

Off to their left, a half-dozen pinpricks of light floated above the horizon, the only evidence that they  

were anywhere near Dras-Leona. The lights seemed close enough to pluck from the air.

He and the two women gathered around Wyrden as the elf knelt and pulled the glove off his right hand.  

Placing his palm against the bare earth, Wyrden began to croon the spell he had learned from the  

dwarven magician whom-ere they left on their mission-Orik had sent to instruct them in the ways of  

detecting underground chambers.

While the elf sang, Eragon stared into the surrounding blackness, listening and watching for enemies. The  

fall of raindrops on his face increased. He hoped the weather would improve before battle was joined, if  

battle was to be joined.

An owl hooted somewhere, and he reached for Brisingr, only to stop himself and clench his fist.Barzûl ,  

he said to himself, using Orik's favorite curse. He was more nervous than he ought to be. The knowledge  

that he might be about to fight Murtagh and Thorn again-singly or together-had put him on edge.

I'll be sure to lose if I keep on like this, he thought. So he slowed his breathing and initiated the first of  

the mental exercises Glaedr had taught him for establishing control over his emotions.

The old dragon had not been enthusiastic about the mission when Eragon told him about it, but neither  

had he opposed it. After discussing various contingencies, Glaedr had said:Beware of the shadows,  

Eragon. Strange things lurk in dark places , which, Eragon thought, was hardly an encouraging  

statement.

He wiped the accumulated moisture off his face, keeping his other hand close to the hilt of his sword.  

The leather of his glove was warm and smooth against his skin.

Lowering his hand, he hooked his thumb under his sword belt, the belt of Beloth the Wise, conscious of  

the weight of the twelve flawless diamonds concealed within. That morning, he had gone to the livestock  

pens, and as the cooks killed the birds and sheep for the army's breakfast, he had transferred the  

animals' dying energy into the gems. He hated doing so; when he reached out with his mind to an  

animal-if it still had its head attached-the animal's fear and pain became his own, and as it slipped into  

the void, he felt as if he himself were dying. It was a horrible, panic-inducing experience. Whenever he  

could, he had whispered words in the ancient language to the animals in an attempt to comfort them.  

Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Though the creatures would have died in any case, and though he  

needed the energy, he hated the practice, for it made him feel as ifhe were responsible for their deaths. It  

made him feel unclean.

Page 179

Now he fancied that the belt was slightly heavier than before, laden as it was with the energy from so  

many animals. Even if the diamonds within had been worthless, Eragon would have regarded the belt as  

valuable beyond gold, on account of the dozens of lives that had gone into filling it.

Now he fancied that the belt was slightly heavier than before, laden as it was with the energy from so  

many animals. Even if the diamonds within had been worthless, Eragon would have regarded the belt as  

valuable beyond gold, on account of the dozens of lives that had gone into filling it.

"This way," said Wyrden, standing.

Relief and trepidation swept through Eragon.Jeod was right!

Wyrden led them over a road and a series of small hills, then down into a shallow wash hidden within the  

folds of the land. "The mouth of the tunnel should be somewhere here," said the elf, and gestured at the  

western bank of the depression.

The herbalist increased the brightness of her werelight enough for them to search by; then Eragon, Arya,  

and Wyrden began to comb through the brush along the side of the bank, poking at the ground with  

sticks. Twice Eragon barked his shins against the stumps of fallen birch trees, causing him to suck in his  

breath with pain. He wished he was wearing bracers, but he had left them behind, along with his shield,  

because they would have attracted too much attention in the city.

For twenty minutes, they searched, ranging up and down the bank as they worked their way out from  

their starting point. At last Eragon heard a ring of metal, and then Arya softly called, "Here."

He and the others hurried toward her, where she stood by a small, overgrown hollow in the side of the  

bank. Arya drew aside the brush to reveal a stone-lined tunnel five feet tall and three feet wide. A rusting  

iron grate covered the gaping hole.

"Look," said Arya, and she pointed at the ground.

Eragon looked, and he saw a path leading out of the tunnel. Even by the weird red illumination of the  

herbalist's werelight, Eragon could tell that the trail had been worn into place by the passage of tramping  

feet. One or more people must have been using the tunnel to surreptitiously enter and exit Dras-Leona.

"We should proceed with caution," whispered Wyrden.

Angela made a faint noise in her throat. "How else were you planning to proceed? With blaring trumpets  

and shouting heralds? Really."

The elf refrained from answering, but he appeared distinctly uncomfortable.

Arya and Wyrden pulled off the grating and cautiously moved into the tunnel. Both conjured werelights  

of their own. The flameless orbs floated over their heads like small red suns, though they emitted no more  

light than a handful of coals.

Eragon hung back and said to Angela, "Why do the elves treat you so respectfully? They seem almost  

afraid of you."

"Am I not deserving of respect?"

He hesitated. "One of these days, you know, you're going to have to tell me about yourself."

Page 180

"What makes you think that?" And she pushed past him to enter the tunnel, her cloak flapping like the  

wings of a Lethrblaka.

"What makes you think that?" And she pushed past him to enter the tunnel, her cloak flapping like the  

wings of a Lethrblaka.

The short herbalist did not have to bend much in order to avoid bumping into the ceiling, but Eragon had  

to hunch like an old man with rheumatism, as did the two elves. For the most part, the tunnel was empty.  

A fine layer of caked dirt covered the floor. A few sticks and rocks, and even a discarded snakeskin,  

were scattered near the mouth of the tunnel. The passageway smelled like damp straw and moth wings.

Eragon and the others walked as quietly as they could, but the tunnel magnified sounds. Every bump and  

scrape echoed, filling the air with a multitude of overlapping whispers that seemed to murmur and sigh  

with a life of their own. The whispers made Eragon feel as if they were surrounded by a host of  

disembodied spirits who were commenting on their every move.

So much for sneaking up on anyone, he thought as he scuffed his boot against a rock, which bounced  

against the side of the tunnel with a loudclack that multiplied a hundredfold as it spread through the  

tunnel.

"Sorry," he mouthed as everyone looked at him.

A wry smile touched his lips.At least we know what causes the strange sounds underneath  

Dras-Leona . He would have to tell Jeod on their return.

When they had gone a fair ways down the tunnel, Eragon paused and looked back at the entrance,  

which was already lost in darkness. The gloom seemed almost palpable, like a heavy cloth draped over  

the world. Combined with the close-set walls and low ceiling, it left him feeling cramped and constricted.  

Normally, he did not mind being in enclosed places, but the tunnel reminded him of the warren of  

rough-hewn passageways within Helgrind where he and Roran had fought the Ra'zac-hardly a pleasant  

memory.

He took a deep breath, then released it.

Just as he was about to continue forward, he caught a glimpse of two large eyes gleaming in the  

shadows, like a pair of copper-colored moonstones. He grabbed Brisingr and had already drawn the  

sword several inches from its scabbard when Solembum appeared out of the murk, padding along on  

silent paws.

The werecat stopped at the edge of the light. He twitched his black-tipped ears, and his jaws parted in  

what seemed to be an expression of amusement.

Eragon relaxed and acknowledged the werecat's presence with a dip of his head.I should have  

guessed . Wherever Angela went, Solembum invariably followed. Again Eragon wondered about the  

herbalist's past:How did she ever win his loyalty?

As the rest of the party grew distant, the shadows crept over Solembum once more, hiding him from  

Eragon's sight.

Comforted by the knowledge that the werecat was watching his back, Eragon hurried to catch up.

Page 181

Before the group left the camp, Nasuada had briefed them on the exact number of soldiers in the city, as  

well as where they were stationed and their duties and habits. She had also given them details about  

Murtagh's sleeping quarters, what he ate, and even his mood the previous evening. Her information had  

been remarkably precise. When questioned, she had smiled and explained that, since the Varden had  

arrived, the werecats had been spying for her within Dras-Leona. Once Eragon and his companions  

emerged within the city, the werecats would escort them to the southern gates but would not reveal their  

own presence to the Empire if at all possible, else they would no longer be able to supply Nasuada with  

intelligence as effectively. After all, who would suspect that the unusually large cat lounging nearby was  

actually an enemy spy?

Before the group left the camp, Nasuada had briefed them on the exact number of soldiers in the city, as  

well as where they were stationed and their duties and habits. She had also given them details about  

Murtagh's sleeping quarters, what he ate, and even his mood the previous evening. Her information had  

been remarkably precise. When questioned, she had smiled and explained that, since the Varden had  

arrived, the werecats had been spying for her within Dras-Leona. Once Eragon and his companions  

emerged within the city, the werecats would escort them to the southern gates but would not reveal their  

own presence to the Empire if at all possible, else they would no longer be able to supply Nasuada with  

intelligence as effectively. After all, who would suspect that the unusually large cat lounging nearby was  

actually an enemy spy?

On and on they went through the tunnel, which ran straight as an arrow, never bending, never turning.  

Eragon thought he detected a slight upward slant to the floor-which would make sense, as it was  

designed to channel waste out of the city-but he was not entirely sure.

After a while, the dirt beneath their feet began to soften and stick to their boots, like wet clay. Water  

dripped from the ceiling, sometimes landing on the nape of Eragon's neck and rolling down his spine, like  

the touch of a cold finger. He slipped once on a patch of mud and, when he put out a hand for balance,  

found the wall covered in slime.

An indeterminate amount of time passed. They might have spent an hour in the tunnel. They might have  

spent ten. Or maybe it was only a few minutes. Whatever the case, Eragon's neck and shoulders hurt  

from standing half bent over, and he grew tired of staring at what seemed to be the same twenty feet of  

rose-hued stone.

At last he noticed the echoes were waning and ever more of a delay was appearing between each  

repetition of the sounds. Soon afterward, the tunnel disgorged them into a large rectangular chamber with  

a ridged, half-dome ceiling over fifteen feet high at its apex. The chamber was empty, except for a rotting  

barrel in one corner. Across from them, three identical archways opened to three identical rooms, small  

and dark. Where those led, Eragon could not see.

The group stopped, and Eragon slowly straightened his back, wincing as his sore muscles stretched.

"This would not have been part of Erst Graybeard's plans," said Arya.

"Which path should we pick?" asked Wyrden.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked the herbalist. "The left one. It's always the left one." And she strode toward  

that selfsame arch even as she spoke.

Eragon could not help himself. "Left according to which direction? If you were starting from the other  

side, left-"

"Left would be right and right would be left, yes, yes," said the herbalist. Her eyes narrowed.  

"Sometimes you're too clever for your own good, Shadeslayer.... Very well, we'll try it your way. But  

don't say I didn't warn you if we end up wandering around here for days on end."

Page 182

Eragon would actually have preferred to take the center archway, as it seemed the most likely to lead  

them up to the streets, but he did not want to get into an argument with the herbalist.Either way, we'll  

find stairs soon enough , he thought.There can't be that many chambers under Dras-Leona .

Eragon would actually have preferred to take the center archway, as it seemed the most likely to lead  

them up to the streets, but he did not want to get into an argument with the herbalist.Either way, we'll  

find stairs soon enough , he thought.There can't be that many chambers under Dras-Leona .

The room through the rightmost archway was larger than it had first appeared, for it extended to the side  

for twenty feet, then turned and continued for another few yards, whereupon it ended at a corridor  

studded with empty sconces. Down the corridor was another small room lined with three arches, each of  

which led to rooms with even more archways, and so on.

Who built these and why?Eragon wondered, bewildered. All the rooms they saw were deserted and  

empty of furnishings. The only things they found within were a two-legged stool that fell apart when he  

nudged it with the tip of his boot and a pile of broken pottery lying in a corner beneath a veil of  

spiderwebs.

Angela never hesitated or seemed confused about which direction to go, for without fail, she chose the  

path to the right. Eragon would have objected, except that he could think of no better alternative to her  

method.

The herbalist stopped when they arrived at a circular room with seven equally spaced archways placed  

along the walls. Seven corridors, including the one they had just traversed, stretched out from the  

archways.

"Mark where we came from, or we'll get completely turned around," said Arya.

Eragon went to the corridor and, with the tip of Brisingr's cross-guard, scratched a line on the stone  

wall. As he did, he peered into the darkness, searching for a glimpse of Solembum, but he saw not so  

much as a whisker. Eragon hoped the werecat had not gotten lost somewhere in the maze of rooms. He  

almost reached out with his mind to find him, but resisted the urge; if anyone else felt him groping around,  

it might alert the Empire to their location.

"Ah!" exclaimed Angela, and the shadows around Eragon shifted as the herbalist stood on tiptoe and  

raised her werelight as high as she could.

Eragon hurried to the center of the room, where she stood with Arya and Wyrden. "What is it?" he  

whispered.

"The ceiling, Eragon," murmured Arya. "Look at the ceiling."

He did as he was told, but saw only blocks of ancient, mold-covered stones crazed with so many  

cracks, it seemed amazing the ceiling had not collapsed long ago.

Then his vision shifted and he gasped.

The lines were not cracks but rather deeply carved runes-rows of them. They were neat and small,  

with sharp angles and straight stems. Mold and the passage of centuries had obscured parts of the text,  

but most of it remained legible.

Page 183

Eragon struggled with the runes for a short while, but he recognized only a few of the words, and those  

were spelled differently than he was used to. "What does it say?" he asked. "Is it Dwarvish?"

Eragon struggled with the runes for a short while, but he recognized only a few of the words, and those  

were spelled differently than he was used to. "What does it say?" he asked. "Is it Dwarvish?"

The name struck a chord in Eragon. "When Roran and I rescued Katrina, we heard the priests of  

Helgrind mention a book of Tosk."

Wyrden nodded. "It serves as the foundation of their faith. Tosk was not the first to offer up prayers to  

Helgrind, but he was the first to codify his beliefs and practices, and many others have imitated him since.  

Those who worship Helgrind regard him as a prophet of the divine. Andthis "-the elf cast his arms out  

wide-"is a history of Tosk, from his birth to his death: a true history, such as his disciples have never  

shared with those outside their sect."

"We could learn much from this," said Angela, never taking her eyes off the ceiling. "If only we had the  

time ..." Eragon was surprised to see her so enthralled.

Arya glanced at the seven corridors. "A moment, then, but read quickly."

While Angela and Wyrden perused the runes with avid intensity, Arya walked over to one of the  

archways and, in an undertone, began to chant a spell for finding and locating. When she finished, she  

waited a moment with her head cocked, then moved on to the next archway.

Eragon stared at the runes a bit longer. Then he returned to the mouth of the corridor that had brought  

them to the room and leaned against a wall while he waited. The cold of the stones seeped into his  

shoulder.

Arya stopped in front of the fourth archway. The now-familiar cadence of her recitation rose and fell like  

a soft sigh of wind.

Again, nothing.

A faint tickling on the back of his right hand caused Eragon to look down. A huge, wingless cricket clung  

to his glove. The insect was hideous: black and bulbous, with barbed legs and a massive, skull-like head.  

Its carapace gleamed like oil.

Eragon shuddered, his skin crawling, and shook his arm, flinging the cricket into the darkness.

It landed with an audiblethump .

The fifth corridor proved no more fruitful for Arya than the preceding four. She bypassed the opening  

where Eragon stood and stationed herself in front of the seventh archway.

Before she could cast her spell, a guttural yowl echoed down the corridors, seemingly from all directions  

at once; then there was a hiss and a spat and a screech that made every hair on Eragon's body stand on  

end.

Angela whirled around. "Solembum!"

As one, the four of them drew their blades.

Page 184

Eragon backed into the center of the room, his gaze darting from one archway to the next. His gedwëy  

ignasia itched and tingled like a fleabite-a useless warning, for it did not tell him where or what the  

danger was.

Eragon backed into the center of the room, his gaze darting from one archway to the next. His gedwëy  

ignasia itched and tingled like a fleabite-a useless warning, for it did not tell him where or what the  

danger was.

The herbalist refused to budge. "No!" she whispered vehemently. "We have to help him." Eragon  

noticed that she held a short sword with a strange colorless blade that flashed gemlike in the light.

Arya scowled. "If Murtagh learns we're here, we'll-"

It happened so quickly and silently, Eragon would never have noticed had he not been looking in the  

right direction: a half-dozen doors hidden within the walls of three different corridors swung open, and  

thirty or so black-garbed men ran out toward them, swords in hand.

"Letta!" shouted Wyrden, and the men in one group collided with each other as if those in front had run  

headlong into a wall.

Then the rest of the attackers fell upon them, and there was no time for magic. Eragon easily parried a  

stab, and with a looping backhanded stroke, sliced off the attacker's head. Like all the others, the man  

wore a kerchief tied over his face, so only his eyes were exposed, and the kerchief fluttered as the head  

fell spinning toward the floor.

Eragon was relieved when he felt Brisingr sink into flesh and blood. For a moment, he had feared that  

their opponents were protected by spells or armor-or, worse, that they were something other than  

human.

He skewered another man through the ribs and had just turned to deal with two more of his attackers  

when a sword that should not have been there arced through the air toward his throat. His wards saved  

him from certain death, yet with the blade an inch away from his neck, Eragon could not help but stumble  

back.

To his astonishment, the man he had stabbed was still standing, blood streaming down his side,  

seemingly oblivious to the hole Eragon had poked through him.

Dread settled over Eragon. "They can't feel pain," he shouted, even as he frantically blocked swords  

from three different directions. If anyone heard him, they failed to respond.

He wasted no more time talking, but concentrated on fighting the men in front of him, trusting his  

companions to protect his back.

Eragon lunged and parried and dodged, whipping Brisingr through the air as if it weighed no more than a  

switch. Ordinarily, he could have killed any of the men in an instant, but the fact that they were  

impervious to pain meant that he had to either behead them, stab them through the heart, or cut them and  

hold them off until loss of blood rendered them unconscious. Otherwise, the attackers kept trying to kill  

him, regardless of their injuries. The number of men made it difficult to evade all of their blows and strike  

back in return. He could have stopped defending himself and just let his wards protect him, but that  

would tire him just as quickly as swinging Brisingr. And since he could not predict exactly when his wards  

would fail-as they must at a certain point, else they would kill him-and he knew he might need them  

later on, he fought just as carefully and cautiously as if he were facing men whose swords could kill or

Page 185

maim with a single stroke.

maim with a single stroke.

"Kverst," he growled under his breath, uttering one of the twelve death words Oromis had taught him.  

As he had suspected, his spell had no effect: the men were warded against direct magical attacks. He  

quickly readied a spell Murtagh had once used on him: "Thrysta vindr!" It was a roundabout way of  

striking at the men, as he was not actually hitting them but rather pushing the air against them. In any case,  

it worked.

A howl of wind filled the chamber, clawing at Eragon's hair and cloak and sending the men closest to  

him flying back into their compatriots, clearing a space of ten feet in front of him. His strength decreased  

commensurately, but not enough to incapacitate him.

He turned to see how the others were doing. He had not been the first to find a way to circumvent the  

men's wards; bolts of lightning extended from Wyrden's right arm and wrapped themselves around any  

warrior unfortunate enough to pass in front of him. The glowing cables of energy appeared almost liquid  

as they writhed around their victims.

Still more men were forcing their way into the room, however.

"This way!" cried Arya, and sprang toward the seventh corridor-the one she had failed to examine  

before the ambush.

Wyrden followed, as did Eragon. Angela brought up the rear, limping and clutching at a bloody cut on  

her shoulder. Behind them, the black-garbed men hesitated, milling in the chamber for a moment. Then,  

with a mighty roar, they gave chase.

As he sprinted down the corridor, Eragon strove to compose a variation of his earlier spell that would  

allow him to kill the men instead of just knocking them away. He quickly devised one and held it in  

readiness to use as soon as he could see a fair number of the attackers.

Who are they?he wondered.How many of them are there?

Up ahead, he glimpsed an opening through which shone a faint purplish light. He just had time to feel  

apprehensive about its source before the herbalist uttered a loud cry, and there was a dull orange flash  

and a teeth-jarringthud , and the smell of sulfur filled the air.

Eragon whirled around to see five men dragging the herbalist through a doorway that had opened in the  

side of the corridor. "No!" yelled Eragon, but before he could stop it, the door swung shut as silently as it  

had opened, and the wall appeared perfectly solid once more.

"Brisingr!" he shouted, and his sword erupted in flame. He placed the tip against the wall and attempted  

to push it through the stone, intending to cut open the door. The stone was thick, though, and slow to  

melt, and he soon realized it would take far more energy than he was willing to sacrifice.

Then Arya appeared beside him, and she placed a hand where the door was and murmured, "Ládrin."  

Open . The door remained stubbornly closed, but Eragon was embarrassed he had not thought to try that  

first.

Page 186

Their pursuers were so close by now that he and Arya had no choice but to turn and face them. Eragon  

wanted to cast the spell he had invented, but the corridor was only wide enough for two men to  

approach at a time; he would not be able to kill the rest, as they were hidden from sight. Better to keep  

the spell a secret, he decided, and save it for when he could wipe out most of the warriors at once.

Their pursuers were so close by now that he and Arya had no choice but to turn and face them. Eragon  

wanted to cast the spell he had invented, but the corridor was only wide enough for two men to  

approach at a time; he would not be able to kill the rest, as they were hidden from sight. Better to keep  

the spell a secret, he decided, and save it for when he could wipe out most of the warriors at once.

"Through here!" shouted Wyrden.

"Stenr slauta!" exclaimed Arya, and all along the corridor-up to a few yards from where she  

stood-the stones in the walls exploded into the passageway. The hail of sharp fragments caused the  

black-clad men to cower and falter, and more than one fell to the floor, crippled.

Together Eragon and Arya turned to follow Wyrden, who was running toward the opening at the end of  

the corridor. The elf was only thirty feet away from it.

Then ten ...

Then five ...

And then a thicket of amethyst spikes shot out of holes in the floor and the ceiling, catching Wyrden  

between them. The elf seemed to float in the middle of the corridor, the spikes less than an inch away  

from his skin as his wards repelled the crystal thorns. Then a crackling discharge of energy ran the length  

of each spike and the needle-sharp tips flared painfully bright, and with an unpleasantcrunch , they slid  

home.

Wyrden screamed and thrashed, and then his werelight went out and he moved no more.

Eragon stared with disbelief as he stumbled to a stop before the spikes. For all his experience in battle,  

he had never before been present at the death of an elf. Wyrden and Blödhgarm and the rest of their  

cohort were so accomplished, Eragon had believed that the only way they were likely to die was while  

fighting either Galbatorix or Murtagh.

Arya appeared equally stunned. She rallied quickly, however. "Eragon," she said in an urgent voice, "cut  

us a path with Brisingr."

He understood. His sword, unlike hers, would be impervious to whatever evil magic the spikes  

contained.

He drew back his arm and swung as hard as he could. A half-dozen of the spikes shattered beneath  

Brisingr's adamantine edge. The amethyst emitted a bell-like tone as it broke, and when the shards struck  

the ground, they tinkled like ice.

Eragon kept to the right of the corridor, making sure not to hit the blood-streaked spikes that held up  

Wyrden's body. Again and again he swung, hacking his way through the glittering thicket. With every  

blow, he sent pieces of amethyst flying through the air. One sliced his left cheek, and he winced,  

surprised and concerned that his wards had failed.

The jagged remnants of the broken spikes forced him to move carefully. The stumps below could easily

Page 187

pierce his boots, while the ones above threatened to cut him about the head and neck. Still, he managed  

to navigate to the far side of the thicket with only a small gash on his right calf, which stung whenever he  

put his weight on the leg.

pierce his boots, while the ones above threatened to cut him about the head and neck. Still, he managed  

to navigate to the far side of the thicket with only a small gash on his right calf, which stung whenever he  

put his weight on the leg.

On the other side of the opening was a dark, heavily built chamber that reminded Eragon of the caves  

under Tronjheim. A huge circular pattern of inlaid stone-marble and chalcedony and polished  

hematite-occupied the center of the floor. Around the edge of the patterned disk stood rough, fist-sized  

chunks of amethyst set within silver collars. Each piece of the purple rock glowed softly-the source of  

the light they had seen from the corridor. Across the disk, against the far wall, was a large black altar  

draped with a gold and crimson cloth. Pillars and candelabra flanked the altar, with a closed door on  

each side.

All this Eragon saw as he barreled into the room, in the brief instant before he realized that his  

momentum was going to carry him through the ring of amethysts and onto the disk. He tried to stop  

himself, tried to turn aside, but he was moving too fast.

Desperate, he did the one thing he could: he jumped toward the altar, hoping he could clear the disk in a  

single bound.

As he sailed over the nearest of the amethyst stones, his last feeling was regret, and his last thought was  

of Saphira.

TOFEED AGOD

he first thing Eragon noticed was the difference in the colors. The stone blocks in the ceiling  

appeared richer than before. Details that had been obscure now seemed sharp and vivid, while others  

that had been prominent were subdued. Below him, the sumptuous nature of the patterned disk was even  

more apparent.

It took him a moment to understand the reason for the change: Arya's red werelight no longer illuminated  

the chamber. Instead, what light there was came from the muted glow of the crystals and the lit candles in  

the candelabra.

Only then did he realize that something was crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaw painfully wide,  

and that he was hanging by his wrists from a chain mounted in the ceiling. He tried to move and found  

that his ankles were shackled and secured to a metal loop in the floor.

As he twisted in place, he saw Arya next to him, trussed and suspended in the same manner. Like him,  

she was gagged with a ball of cloth in her mouth and a rag tied around her head to hold it in place.

Page 188

She was already awake and watching him, and he saw she was relieved at his return to consciousness.

She was already awake and watching him, and he saw she was relieved at his return to consciousness.

He looked down and saw that he had been stripped of his weapons and armor; he was clad only in his  

leggings. The belt of Beloth the Wise was gone, as was the necklace the dwarves had given him that  

prevented anyone from scrying him.

Looking up, he saw that the elf ring Aren was missing from his hand.

A touch of panic gripped him. Then he reassured himself with the knowledge that he was not helpless,  

not so long as he could work magic. Because of the cloth in his mouth, he would have to cast a spell  

without uttering it aloud, which was somewhat more dangerous than the normal method-for if his  

thoughts strayed during the process, he might accidentally select the wrong words-but not so dangerous  

as casting a spell without any use of the ancient language at all, which was perilous indeed. In any event, it  

would take only a small amount of energy for him to free himself, and he was confident he could do it  

without too much trouble.

He closed his eyes and gathered his resources in preparation. As he did, he heard Arya rattling her chain  

and making muffled noises.

Glancing over, he saw her shaking her head at him. He raised his eyebrows in a wordless inquiry:what is  

it? But she was unable to do anything more than grunt and continue to shake her head.

Frustrated, Eragon cautiously pushed out his mind toward her-alert for the slightest hint of intrusion  

from anyone else-but to his alarm, he felt only a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding him, as if bales of  

wool were packed around his mind.

Panic began to well up inside of him again, despite his efforts to control it.

He was not drugged. Of that, he was sure. But he did not know what else besides a drug could prevent  

him from touching Arya's mind. If it was magic, it was magic unlike any he was familiar with.

He and Arya stared at each other for a moment; then a stir of motion drew Eragon's eye upward and he  

saw lines of blood running down her forearms from where the manacles around her wrists had scraped  

away the skin.

Rage engulfed him. He grabbed the chain above him and yanked on it as hard as he could. The links  

held, but he refused to give up. In a frenzy of anger, he pulled on it again and again, without regard for the  

harm he was causing himself.

At last he stopped and hung limply while hot blood dripped from his wrists onto the back of his neck  

and shoulders.

Determined to escape, he delved into the flow of energy within his body and, directing the spell at his  

shackles, he mentally shouted,Kverst malmr du huildrs edtha, mar frëma né thön eka threyja!

He screamed into his gag as every nerve in his body seared with pain. Unable to maintain his  

concentration, he lost his grip on the spell, and the enchantment ended.

Page 189

The pain vanished at once, but it left him devoid of breath, with his heart pounding as heavily as if he had  

just jumped off a cliff. The experience was similar to the seizures he had suffered before the dragons  

healed the scar on his back during the Agaetí Blödhren.

The pain vanished at once, but it left him devoid of breath, with his heart pounding as heavily as if he had  

just jumped off a cliff. The experience was similar to the seizures he had suffered before the dragons  

healed the scar on his back during the Agaetí Blödhren.

If we can't escape ...He shied away from the thought; it did not bear dwelling on. More than anything,  

he wished he could contact Saphira, if only to be assured that she was still safe and to take comfort in her  

companionship. Though Arya was with him, he felt incredibly alone, and that unnerved him most of all.

Despite the agony in his wrists, he resumed pulling on the chain, convinced that if he just kept at it long  

enough, he could work it loose from the ceiling. He tried twisting it, thinking it would be easier to break  

that way, but the fetters around his ankles kept him from turning very far to either side.

The sores on his wrist eventually forced him to stop. They burned like fire, and he was afraid he might  

end up cutting into muscle if he continued. Also, he worried he might lose too much blood, as the sores  

were already bleeding heavily, and he did not know how long he and Arya would have to hang there,  

waiting.

It was impossible to tell what time it was, but he guessed that they had been captives for only a few  

hours at the most, given that he did not feel the need to eat, drink, or relieve himself. That would change,  

though, and then their discomfort would only increase.

The pain in Eragon's wrists made every minute seem unbearably long. Occasionally, he and Arya would  

stare at each other and try to communicate, but their efforts always failed. Twice his sores crusted over  

enough that he risked yanking on the chain again, but to no avail. For the most part, he and Aryaendured  

.

Then, when Eragon had begun to wonder if anyone was ever going to come, he heard theclang of iron  

bells from somewhere in the tunnels and passageways, and the doors on either side of the black altar  

swung open on silent hinges. Eragon's muscles tensed in anticipation. He fixed his eyes on the openings,  

as did Arya.

A seemingly endless minute passed.

With a brash, jarring toll, the bells sounded again, filling the chamber with a swarm of angry echoes.  

Through the doorways marched three novitiates: young men garbed in golden cloth, each carrying a metal  

frame hung with bells. Behind them followed twenty-four men and women, not one of whom possessed a  

full set of limbs. Unlike their predecessors, the cripples wore robes of dark leather, tailored to match their  

individual infirmities. And last of all, six oiled slaves carried in a bier, upon which, propped upright, rested  

an armless, legless, toothless, seemingly sexless figure: the High Priest of Helgrind. From its head rose a  

three-foot-high crest, which only made the creature appear even more misshapen.

The priests and novitiates positioned themselves around the edge of the patterned disk on the floor,  

while the slaves gently lowered the bier onto the altar at the head of the room. Then the three perfect,

Page 190

handsome young men shook the bells once more, creating a discordant crash, and the leather-clad priests  

chanted a short phrase so quickly that Eragon was not sure what they said, though it had the sound of  

ritual. Amongst the crush of words, he caught the names of the three peaks of Helgrind: Gorm, Ilda, and  

Fell Angvara.

handsome young men shook the bells once more, creating a discordant crash, and the leather-clad priests  

chanted a short phrase so quickly that Eragon was not sure what they said, though it had the sound of  

ritual. Amongst the crush of words, he caught the names of the three peaks of Helgrind: Gorm, Ilda, and  

Fell Angvara.

Dread crept through Eragon like a sickness.

The High Priest spat at him, and spittle drooled from its slack lower lip. "There is no torture horrible  

enough for your crime, Rider. You killed our gods, you and that accursed dragon of yours. For that, you  

must die."

Eragon struggled against his bonds and tried to shout through his gag. If he could talk, he could stall for  

time by telling them what the Ra'zac's last words had been, perhaps, or by threatening them with  

Saphira's vengeance. But their captors showed no inclination to remove his gag.

In a hideous gesture, the High Priest smiled, showing its gray gums. "You will never escape, Rider. The  

crystals here were enchanted to trap any who might try to desecrate our temple or steal our treasures,  

even one such as you. Nor is there anyone to rescue you. Two of your companions are dead-yes, even  

that meddlesome witch-and Murtagh knows nothing of your presence here. Today is the day of your  

doom, EragonShadeslayer ." Then the High Priest tilted back its head and uttered a gruesome, gurgling  

whistle.

From the dark doorway to the left of the altar, there appeared four bare-chested slaves. On their  

shoulders, they bore a platform with two large, shallow, cuplike protrusions in the middle. Within the  

protrusions lay a pair of oval objects, each about a foot and a half long and half a foot thick. The objects  

were blue black and pitted like sandstone.

Time seemed to slow for Eragon.They can't be ... , he thought. Saphira's egg had been smooth,  

however, and veined like marble. Whatever these objects were, they were not dragon eggs. The  

alternatives frightened him even more.

"Since you killed the Old Ones," said the High Priest, "it is only fitting that you provide the food for their  

rebirth. You do not deserve such a great honor, but it will please the Old Ones, and in all things we strive  

to satisfy their desires. We are their faithful servants, and they our masters cruel and implacable: the  

three-faced god-the hunters of men, the eaters of flesh, and the drinkers of blood. To them, we offer up  

our bodies in hope of revelation into the mysteries of this life and in hope of absolution for our  

transgressions. As Tosk wrote, so shall it be."

In unison, the leather-clad priests repeated: "As Tosk wrote, so shall it be."

The High Priest nodded. "The Old Ones have always nested on Helgrind, but in the time of my

Page 191

grandfather's father, Galbatorix stole their eggs and killed their young, and he forced them to swear fealty  

to him lest he eradicate their line entirely. He hollowed out the caves and tunnels they have used ever  

since, and to us, to their devoted acolytes, he gave charge of their eggs-to watch and to hold and to  

care for until they were needed. This we have done, and none may fault us for our service.

grandfather's father, Galbatorix stole their eggs and killed their young, and he forced them to swear fealty  

to him lest he eradicate their line entirely. He hollowed out the caves and tunnels they have used ever  

since, and to us, to their devoted acolytes, he gave charge of their eggs-to watch and to hold and to  

care for until they were needed. This we have done, and none may fault us for our service.

As the High Priest spoke, the four slaves bearing the platform walked forth and carefully lowered it from  

their shoulders onto the patterned disk, setting it down several paces in front of Eragon and Arya. Once  

they finished, they bowed their heads and retreated through the doorway from which they had come.

"Who could ask for anything more than to feed a god with the marrow of their bones?" asked the High  

Priest. "Rejoice, both of you, for today you receive the blessing of the Old Ones, and by your sacrifice,  

the record of your sins shall be washed clean and you shall enter the afterlife as pure as a newly born  

child."

Then the High Priest and its followers raised their faces toward the ceiling and began to intone a strange,  

oddly accented song that Eragon had trouble understanding. He wondered if it was in the dialect of Tosk.  

At times, he heard what he thought were words in the ancient language-mangled and misused, but still  

the ancient language.

When the grotesque congregation finished, ending with another chorus of "As Tosk wrote, so shall it  

be," the three novitiates shook the bells in an ecstasy of religious fervor, and the resulting clamor seemed  

loud enough to bring down the ceiling.

Still shaking the bells, the novitiates filed out of the room. The four-and-twenty lesser priests departed  

next, and then, bringing up the rear of the procession, their limbless master, transported upon its bier by  

the six oiled slaves.

The door closed behind them with an ominousboom , and Eragon heard a heavy bar fall into place on  

the other side.

He turned to look at Arya. The expression in her eyes was that of despair, and he knew she had no  

more idea of how to escape than he did.

He gazed upward again and pulled on the chain that held him, using as much of his strength as he dared.  

The sores on his wrists again tore open, and they sprinkled him with drops of blood.

In front of them, the leftmost egg began to rock back and forth ever so slightly, and from it came a faint  

tapping, like the rapping of a tiny hammer.

A profound sense of horror suffused Eragon. Of all the ways he could imagine dying, being eaten alive  

by a Ra'zac was by far the worst. He yanked on the chain with renewed determination, biting his gag to  

help him withstand the agony in his arms. The resulting pain caused his vision to flicker.

Next to him, Arya thrashed and twisted as well, both of them fighting in deadly silence to free  

themselves.

Page 192

And still thetap-tap-tap ping continued on the blue-black shell.

And still thetap-tap-tap ping continued on the blue-black shell.

He studied the iron bands around his wrists.If I can break my thumbs, I might be able to pull my  

hands out. Then at least I could fight. Maybe I could grab a piece of the Ra'zac's shell and use it  

as a knife . With something to cut, he could free his legs as well, though the thought was so terrifying, he  

ignored it for the time being.All I would have to do is crawl out of the circle of stones . He would be  

able to use magic then, and he could stop the pain and the bleeding. What he was considering would only  

take a few minutes, but he knew they would be the longest minutes of his life.

He drew in a breath in preparation.Left hand first .

Before he could start, Arya screamed.

He spun toward her and uttered a wordless exclamation as he saw the mangled fingers of her right hand.  

Her skin was pushed up like a glove toward her nails, and the white of bone showed amid crimson  

muscle. Arya sagged and appeared to lose consciousness for a moment; then she recovered and pulled  

on her arm once more. Eragon cried out with her as her hand slid through the metal cuff, tearing off skin  

and flesh. Her arm fell to her side, hiding the hand from his sight, though he could see the blood  

splattering on the floor by her feet.

Tears blurred his eyes, and he shouted her name into his gag, but she seemed not to hear him.

As she braced herself to repeat the process, the door to the right of the altar opened, and one of the  

golden-robed novitiates slipped into the chamber. Seeing him, Arya hesitated, though Eragon knew she  

would pull her other hand out of the manacle at the slightest hint of danger.

The young man looked askance at Arya, then cautiously made his way to the center of the patterned  

disk, casting apprehensive glances at the egg that was rocking back and forth. The youth was slight, with  

large eyes and delicate features; it seemed obvious to Eragon that he had been chosen for his position  

because of his appearance.

"Here," whispered the youth. "I brought these." From within his robes, he produced a file, a chisel, and  

a wooden mallet. "If I help, you have to take me with you. I can't stand it here any longer. I hate it. It's  

horrible! Promise you'll take me with you!"

Even before he finished speaking, Eragon was nodding his assent. As the young man started toward him,  

though, Eragon growled and motioned with his head in Arya's direction. It took a few seconds before the  

novitiate understood.

"Oh, yes," murmured the young man, and went over to Arya instead. Eragon ground his teeth through  

the gag in anger over the youth's slowness.

The harsh scrape of the file soon drowned out the tapping from within the wobbling egg.

Eragon watched as best he could while their would-be rescuer sawed on a section of chain above

Page 193

Arya's left hand.Keep the file on the same link, you fool! Eragon raged. The novitiate looked as if he  

had never used a file before, and Eragon doubted that the youth had the strength or endurance to cut  

through even a small amount of metal.

Arya's left hand.Keep the file on the same link, you fool! Eragon raged. The novitiate looked as if he  

had never used a file before, and Eragon doubted that the youth had the strength or endurance to cut  

through even a small amount of metal.

To Eragon's dismay, the file did not seem to be leaving a mark on the chain. Whatever magics protected  

the metal, they were too strong for something as simple as a file to overcome.

The novitiate huffed, appearing petulant at his lack of progress. He paused and wiped his brow, then,  

frowning, attacked the chain once again, elbows flailing, chest heaving, the sleeves of his robe flapping  

wildly.

Don't you realize it's not going to work?thought Eragon.Try the chisel on the shackles around her  

ankles instead .

The young man continued as he was.

A sharpcrack echoed through the chamber, and Eragon saw a thin fissure appear at the top of the dark,  

pitted egg. The fissure lengthened, and a web of hairline fractures spread outward from it.

Then the second egg began to wobble as well, and from it came anothertap-tap-tap ping, which joined  

with the first to form a maddening rhythm.

The novitiate went pale, then dropped the file and backed away from Arya, shaking his head. "I'm  

sorry.... I'm sorry. It's too late." His face crumpled, and tears rolled from his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Eragon's alarm increased as the young man pulled a dagger from within his robes. "There's nothing else  

I can do," he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "Nothing else ..." He sniffed and moved  

toward Eragon. "It's for the best."

As the young man stepped forward, Eragon wrenched at his bonds, trying to pull one of his hands out of  

the manacles. The iron cuffs were too tight, however, and all he succeeded in doing was scraping more of  

the skin off his wrists.

"I'm sorry," whispered the young man as he stopped in front of Eragon and drew back the dagger.

No!Eragon shouted in his mind.

A chunk of glittering amethyst hurtled out of the tunnel that had brought Eragon and Arya to the  

chamber. It struck the novitiate in the back of the head, and he fell against Eragon. Eragon flinched as he  

felt the edge of the dagger slide across his ribs. Then the young man tumbled to the floor and lay there,  

unconscious.

From within the depths of the tunnel emerged a small, limping figure. Eragon stared, and as the figure  

moved into the light, he saw that it was none other than Solembum.

Relief swept through Eragon.

The werecat was in his human form, and he was naked except for a ragged loincloth that looked as if it

Page 194

had been torn from the clothes of their attackers. His spiky black hair stood nearly on end, and a feral  

snarl disfigured his lips. Several cuts covered his forearms, his left ear hung drooping from the side of his  

head, and a strip of skin was missing from his scalp. He carried a blood-smeared knife.

had been torn from the clothes of their attackers. His spiky black hair stood nearly on end, and a feral  

snarl disfigured his lips. Several cuts covered his forearms, his left ear hung drooping from the side of his  

head, and a strip of skin was missing from his scalp. He carried a blood-smeared knife.

INFIDELS ON THELOOSE

hat an idiot," proclaimed Angela as she hurried to the edge of the patterned disk on the  

floor. She was bleeding from a number of cuts and scratches, and her clothes were stained with even  

more blood, which Eragon suspected was not her own. Otherwise, she appeared unharmed. "All he had  

to do was-this!"

And she swung her sword with its transparent blade up and over her head, and brought the pommel  

down against one of the amethysts that ringed the disk. The crystal shattered with an oddsnap , like a  

shock of static, and the light it emitted flickered and went out. The other crystals maintained their  

radiance.

Without pause, Angela stepped to the next piece of amethyst and broke it as well, then the one after it,  

and so on.

Never in his life had Eragon been so grateful to see anyone.

He alternated between watching the herbalist and watching the cracks widening at the top of the first  

egg. The Ra'zac had almost pecked its way out, a fact it seemed to be aware of, for it was squeaking  

and tapping with increased vigor. Between the pieces of shell, Eragon saw a thick white membrane and  

the beaked head of the Ra'zac pushing blindly against it, horrible and monstrous.

Hurry, hurry, Eragon thought as a fragment as large as his hand fell from the egg and clattered against  

the floor, like a plate made of fired clay.

The membrane tore, and the young Ra'zac stuck its head out of the egg, revealing its barbed purple  

tongue as it uttered a triumphant screech. Slime dripped from its carapace, and a fungus-like smell  

pervaded the chamber.

Eragon tugged at his bonds once more, futile as it was.

The Ra'zac screeched again, then struggled to extricate itself from the remainder of the egg. It pulled one  

clawed arm free, but in the process it unbalanced the egg, which tipped to one side, spilling a thick,  

yellowish fluid across the patterned disk. The grotesque hatchling lay on its side for a moment, stunned.  

Then it stirred and got to its feet, where it stood, swaying and uncertain, clicking to itself like an agitated  

insect.

Eragon stared, appalled and terrified, but also fascinated.

Page 195

The Ra'zac had a deep, ridged chest that made it look as if its ribs were on the outside of its body, not  

the inside. The creature's limbs were thin and knobby, like sticks, and its waist was narrower than any  

human's. Each leg had an extra backward-bending joint, something that Eragon had never seen before,  

but which accounted for the Ra'zac's unsettling gait. Its carapace appeared soft and malleable, unlike  

those of the more mature Ra'zac Eragon had encountered. No doubt it would harden in time.

The Ra'zac had a deep, ridged chest that made it look as if its ribs were on the outside of its body, not  

the inside. The creature's limbs were thin and knobby, like sticks, and its waist was narrower than any  

human's. Each leg had an extra backward-bending joint, something that Eragon had never seen before,  

but which accounted for the Ra'zac's unsettling gait. Its carapace appeared soft and malleable, unlike  

those of the more mature Ra'zac Eragon had encountered. No doubt it would harden in time.

Eragon shouted into his gag, hoping to distract the creature, but other than a quick glance, it ignored him.

"Now!"exclaimed Angela, and she broke the last of the crystals.

Even as the shards of amethyst skittered across the floor, Solembum leaped toward the Ra'zac. The  

werecat's form blurred in midair-head shrinking, legs shortening, fur sprouting-and he landed on all  

fours, his body once more that of an animal.

The Ra'zac hissed and clawed at Solembum, but the werecat dodged the blow and, faster than the eye  

could follow, slapped the Ra'zac's head with one of his large, heavy paws.

The Ra'zac's neck broke with acrack , and the creature flew across the room and landed in a twisted  

heap, where it lay twitching for several seconds.

Solembum hissed, his one uninjured ear pressed flat against his skull; then he wriggled out of the loincloth  

that was still tied around his hips and went over to sit and wait by the other egg.

"Whathave you done to yourself?" said Angela as she hurried over to Arya. Arya wearily lifted her  

head, but she made no attempt to answer.

With three swift strokes of her colorless blade, the herbalist sliced through Arya's remaining cuffs, as if  

the tempered metal were no harder than cheese.

Arya fell to her knees and doubled over, pressing her injured hand against her stomach. With her other  

hand, she tore at her gag.

The burning in Eragon's shoulders eased when Angela cut him free and he was finally able to lower his  

arms. He pulled the cloth out of his mouth and, in a hoarse voice, said, "We thought you were dead."

"They'll have to try harder than that if they want to kill me. Bunglers, the lot of them."

Still doubled over, Arya began to chant spells of binding and healing. Her words were soft and strained,  

but she never faltered or misspoke.

While she worked to repair the damage to her hand, Eragon healed the cut on his ribs as well as the  

sores on his wrists. Then he motioned at Solembum and said, "Move."

The werecat flicked his tail but did as Eragon asked.

Lifting his right hand, Eragon said, "Brisingr!"

Page 196

A pillar of blue flame erupted around the second egg. The creature inside screamed: a terrible, unearthly

A pillar of blue flame erupted around the second egg. The creature inside screamed: a terrible, unearthly

Narrowing his eyes against the heat, Eragon watched with satisfaction as the egg burned.And let that be  

the last of them , he thought. When the screaming ceased, he extinguished the flame, and it went out  

from the bottom up. The silence afterward was unexpectedly complete, for Arya had finished her  

incantations and all was still.

Angela was the first to stir. She went to Solembum and stood over him, murmuring in the ancient

language as she mended his ear and other wounds.

Eragon knelt by Arya and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, then uncurled her body  

enough to show him her hand. The skin along the lower third of her thumb, as well as along the outer  

edge of her palm and across the back of her hand, was shiny and bright red. However, the muscles  

underneath appeared sound.

"Why didn't you finish healing it?" he asked. "If you're too tired, I can-"

She shook her head. "I damaged several nerves ... and I can't seem to repair them. I need Blödhgarm's  

help; he is more skilled than I at manipulating flesh."

"Can you fight?"

"If I'm careful."

He tightened his grip on her shoulder for a moment. "What you did-"

"I only did what was logical."

"Most people wouldn't have had the strength.... I tried, but my hand was too big. See?" And he held up

his hand against hers.

She nodded, then grasped his arm and slowly got to her feet. Eragon rose with her, providing her with a  

steady support.

"We have to find our weapons," he said, "as well as my ring, my belt, and the necklace the dwarves  

gave me."

Angela frowned. "Why your belt? Is it enchanted?"

When Eragon hesitated, unsure whether to tell her the truth, Arya said, "You would not know the name

of its maker, wise one, but during your travels, you must surely have heard tell of the belt of the twelve

stars."

The herbalist's eyes widened. "Thatbelt?! But I thought it was lost over four centuries ago, destroyed  

during the-"

"We recovered it," said Arya flatly.

Eragon could see that the herbalist longed to ask more questions, but she merely said, "I see.... We

Page 197

can't waste time searching every room in this warren, though. Once the priests realize you've escaped,  

we'll have the whole pack of them nipping at our heels."

can't waste time searching every room in this warren, though. Once the priests realize you've escaped,  

we'll have the whole pack of them nipping at our heels."

Dropping into a squat, the herbalist placed two fingers against the youth's jugular vein, feeling his pulse.  

Then she slapped his cheeks and peeled back his eyelids.

The novitiate remained slack and motionless.

His lack of response seemed to annoy the herbalist. "One moment," she said, closing her eyes. A slight  

frown creased her brow. For a while, she was still; then she sprang upward with sudden speed. "What a  

self-absorbed little wretch! No wonder his parents sent him to join the priests. I'm surprised they put up  

with him as long as they did."

"Does he know anything of use?" asked Eragon.

"Only the path to the surface." She pointed toward the door to the left of the altar, the same door  

through which the priests had entered and departed. "It's amazing that he tried to free you; I suspect it's  

the first time in his life he's ever done anything of his own accord."

"We have to bring him with us." Eragon hated to say it, but duty compelled him. "I promised we would if  

he helped us."

"He tried to kill you!"

"I gave my word."

Angela sighed and rolled her eyes. To Arya, she said, "I don't suppose you can convince him  

otherwise?"

Arya shook her head, then hoisted the young man onto her shoulder without apparent effort. "I'll carry  

him," she said.

"In that case," the herbalist said to Eragon, "you had best have this, since it seems you and I are to do  

most of the fighting." She handed him her short sword, then drew a poniard with a jeweled hilt from  

within the folds of her dress.

"What is it made of?" Eragon asked as he peered through the transparent blade of the sword, noticing  

how it caught and reflected the light. The substance reminded him of diamond, but he could not imagine  

that anyone would make a weapon out of a gemstone; the amount of energy required to keep the stone  

from breaking with every blow would soon exhaust any normal magician.

"Neither stone nor metal," said the herbalist. "A word of caution, though. You must take great care  

when handling it. Never touch the edge or allow anything you cherish to come near it, else you will regret  

it. Likewise, never lean the sword against something you might need-your leg, for example."

Wary, Eragon held the sword farther away from his body. "Why?"

"Because," said the herbalist with evident relish, "thisis the sharpest blade in all of existence. No other

Page 198

sword or knife or ax can match the keenness of its edge, not even Brisingr. It is the ultimate embodiment  

of an incision-making instrument.This "-she paused for emphasis-"is the archetype of an inclined  

plane.... You'll not find its equal anywhere. It can cut through anything not protected by magic, and  

many things that are. Try it if you don't believe me."

sword or knife or ax can match the keenness of its edge, not even Brisingr. It is the ultimate embodiment  

of an incision-making instrument.This "-she paused for emphasis-"is the archetype of an inclined  

plane.... You'll not find its equal anywhere. It can cut through anything not protected by magic, and  

many things that are. Try it if you don't believe me."

"Not so quickly!" cried Angela.

The transparent blade passed through four inches of stone as if the granite were no harder than custard,  

then continued down toward his feet. Eragon yelped and jumped back, barely managing to stop his arm  

before he cut himself.

The corner of the altar bounced off the step below and then tumbled clacking toward the middle of the  

room.

The blade of the sword, Eragon realized, might very well be diamond after all. It would not need as  

much protection as he had assumed, since it would rarely meet with any substantial resistance.

"Here," said Angela. "You had better have this as well." She unbuckled the sword's scabbard and gave  

it to him. "It's one of the few things youcan't cut with that blade."

It took Eragon a moment to find his voice after so nearly lopping off his toes. "Does the sword have a  

name?"

Angela laughed. "Of course. In the ancient language, its name is Albitr, which means exactly what you  

think. But I prefer to call it Tinkledeath."

"Tinkledeath!"

"Yes. Because of the sound the blade makes when you tap it." She demonstrated with the tip of a  

fingernail and smiled at the resulting high-pitched note that pierced the darkened chamber like a ray of  

sunshine. "Now then, shall we be off?"

Eragon checked to make sure they were not forgetting anything; then he nodded, strode to the left-hand  

door, and opened it as quietly as he could.

Through the doorway was a long, broad hallway lit by torches. And standing guard in two smart rows,  

one along each side of the hallway, were twenty of the black-garbed warriors who had ambushed them  

earlier.

They looked at Eragon and reached for their weapons.

A curse ran through Eragon's mind, and he sprang forward, intending to attack before the warriors  

could draw their swords and organize themselves into an effective group. He had only covered a few  

feet, however, when a flicker of movement appeared next to each man: a soft, shadowy blur, like the  

motion of a windblown pennant seen at the edge of his vision.

Without so much as a single cry, the twenty men stiffened and fell to the floor, dead, every last one of  

them.

Page 199

Alarmed, Eragon slowed to a stop before he ran into the bodies. Each of the men had been stabbed  

through an eye, as neat as could be.

Alarmed, Eragon slowed to a stop before he ran into the bodies. Each of the men had been stabbed  

through an eye, as neat as could be.

Awe and fear filled Eragon. Whatever the herbalist had done, it was beyond his understanding.

"Wise one," said Arya, and she too sounded uncertain, "how did you manage to do this?"

The herbalist chuckled between breaths, then said, "I used a trick ... I learned from my  

master ... Tenga ... ages ago. May a thousand spiders bite his ears and knobbly bits."

"Yes, buthow did you do it?" insisted Eragon.A trick like that might be useful in Urû'baen .

The herbalist chuckled again. "What is time but motion? And what is motion but heat? And are not heat  

and energy but different names for the same thing?" She pushed herself off the wall, walked over to  

Eragon, and patted him on the cheek. "When you understand the implications of that, you'll understand  

how and what I did.... I won't be able to use the spell again today, not without hurting myself, so don't  

expect me to kill everyone the next time we run into a batch of men."

With some difficulty, Eragon swallowed his curiosity and nodded.

He stripped a tunic and a padded jerkin off one of the fallen men, and after donning the clothes, he led  

the way down the hall and through the archway at the far end.

They encountered no one else in the complex of rooms and corridors thereafter, nor did they find any  

sign of their stolen possessions. Although Eragon was glad to avoid notice, the absence of even servants  

worried him. He hoped that he and his companions had not triggered alarms that had warned the priests  

of their escape.

Unlike the abandoned chambers they had seen before the ambush, those they passed through now were  

filled with tapestries, furniture, and strange devices made of brass and crystal, the purpose of which  

Eragon could not fathom. More than once, a desk or a bookcase tempted him to pause and inspect its  

contents, but he always resisted the urge. They did not have time to read musty old papers, no matter  

how intriguing.

Angela chose the path they took whenever there was more than one option, but Eragon remained in the  

lead, clutching the wire-wrapped hilt of Tinkledeath with a grip so hard, his hand began to cramp.

Soon enough, they arrived at a passageway ending in a flight of stone steps that narrowed as it rose.  

Two novitiates stood by the stairs, one on either side, each holding a rack of bells such as Eragon had  

seen earlier.

He ran at the two young men and managed to stab one novitiate through the neck before he could shout  

or ring his bells. The other, however, had time to do both before Solembum leaped on him and bore him  

to the ground, tearing at his face, and the whole of the passageway rang with the clamor.

"Hurry!" Eragon cried as he bounded up the stairs.

Page 200

At the top of the steps was a freestanding wall some ten feet wide, covered with ornate scrollwork and  

carvings that seemed vaguely familiar to Eragon. He dodged around the wall and came out into a beam of  

rose-tinted light of such intensity that he faltered, confused. He lifted Tinkledeath's scabbard to shade his  

eyes.

At the top of the steps was a freestanding wall some ten feet wide, covered with ornate scrollwork and  

carvings that seemed vaguely familiar to Eragon. He dodged around the wall and came out into a beam of  

rose-tinted light of such intensity that he faltered, confused. He lifted Tinkledeath's scabbard to shade his  

eyes.

Then Eragon looked past them and saw, as if in a series of lightning flashes: Massive ribbed columns  

rising toward a vaulted ceiling that vanished into shadow. Stained-glass windows set within towering  

walls-the windows on the left burning with light from the rising sun; those on the right dull and flat,  

lifeless. Pale statues standing between the windows. Rows of granite pews, dappled with different colors,  

extending all the way to the far-off entrance to the nave. And, filling the first four rows, a flock of  

leather-garbed priests, their faces upturned and their mouths opened in song, like so many hatchlings  

begging for food.

He was, Eragon belatedly realized, standing in the great cathedral of Dras-Leona, on the other side of  

the altar he had once knelt before in reverence, long ago.

The handless woman dropped the chalice and stood, throwing her arms out wide as she shielded the  

High Priest with her body. Behind her, Eragon glimpsed the blue of Brisingr's sheath lying near the  

leading edge of the bier, and he thought he saw Aren next to it.

Before he could chase after his sword, two guards rushed toward him from either side of the altar,  

slashing at him with engraved, red-tasseled pikes. He sidestepped the first guard and sliced the shaft of  

the man's pike in half, sending the blade flying through the air. Then Eragon sliced the man himself in half;  

Tinkledeath passed through his flesh and bones with shocking ease.

Eragon dispatched the second guard just as quickly and turned to face a pair approaching from behind.  

The herbalist joined him, brandishing her poniard, and somewhere off to his left, Solembum growled.  

Arya hung back from the fighting, still carrying the young man.

The spilled blood from the chalice had coated the floor around the altar. The guards slipped in the  

puddle and the rear man fell and knocked his companion off his feet. Eragon shuffled toward  

them-never lifting his feet off the floor so as to avoid losing his balance-and before the guards could  

react, he slew them both, taking care to control the herbalist's enchanted blade as it effortlessly cut  

through the two men.

As he did, Eragon was aware that the High Priest was screaming, as if at a great distance, "Kill the  

infidels! Kill them! Don't let the blasphemers escape! They must be punished for their crimes against the  

Old Ones!"

The congregation of priests began to howl and stamp their feet, and Eragon felt their minds clawing at  

his, like a pack of wolves tearing at a weakened deer. He retreated deep within himself, warding off the  

attacks with techniques he had been practicing under Glaedr's tutelage. It was difficult to defend himself  

from so many foes, however, and he feared that he would not be able to maintain his barriers for long.  

His one advantage was that the panicked, disorganized priests attacked him as individuals, not as a unit;  

their combined might would have overwhelmed him.

Page 201

Then Arya's consciousness was pressing against his-a familiar, comforting presence amid the clutch of  

enemies scrabbling against his inner self. Relieved, he opened himself to her, and they joined their minds,  

even as he and Saphira would do, and for a time their identities merged and he lost the ability to  

determine where many of their shared thoughts and feelings came from.

Then Arya's consciousness was pressing against his-a familiar, comforting presence amid the clutch of  

enemies scrabbling against his inner self. Relieved, he opened himself to her, and they joined their minds,  

even as he and Saphira would do, and for a time their identities merged and he lost the ability to  

determine where many of their shared thoughts and feelings came from.

The priest lacked discipline, however, and his concentration soon wavered as he thought,The infidels  

are too close to Master. We have to kill them before-Wait! No! No ...!

Eragon and Arya seized upon the priest's weakness and quickly subjugated the man's thoughts to their  

will. Once they were certain he could not retaliate against them with mind or body, Arya cast a spell that,  

from examining the priest's memories, she knew could slip past his wards.

In the third row of pews, a man screamed and burst into flame, green fire pouring from his ears, mouth,  

and eyes. The flames ignited the clothes of several priests close to him, and the burning men and women  

began to thrash and run about wildly, further disrupting the attacks against Eragon. The rippling flames  

sounded like branches snapping in a storm.

The herbalist ran down from the altar and moved among the priests, stabbing here and there. Solembum  

followed close at her heels, finishing off those she felled.

After that, it was easy for Eragon and Arya to invade and seize control of their enemies' minds.  

Continuing to work together, they killed four more priests, at which point the rest of the congregation  

broke and scattered. Some fled through the vestibule that Eragon remembered led to the priory next to  

the cathedral, while others crouched behind the pews and wrapped their arms around their heads.

Six of the priests, however, neither fled nor hid, but rather charged Eragon, brandishing curved knives  

with what hands they still possessed. Eragon cut at the first priest before she could strike at him. To his  

annoyance, the woman was protected by a ward that stopped Tinkledeath half a foot from her neck,  

causing the sword to turn in his hand and a shock to run up his arm. With his left hand, Eragon swung at  

the woman. For whatever reason, the spell did not stop his fist, and he felt the bones in her chest give  

way as he knocked her sprawling into the people behind her.

The remaining priests extricated themselves and resumed their charge. Stepping forward, Eragon  

blocked a clumsy slash from the foremost priest; then-with a shout of"Ha!" -he drove his fist into the  

man's gut and sent him flying into a pew, which the priest struck with a nasty crack.

Eragon killed the next man in a similar manner. A green and yellow dart buried itself in the throat of the  

priest to his right, and there was a tawny blur as Solembum leaped past him and tackled another of the  

group.

That left but one of Tosk's followers standing before him. With her free hand, Arya grabbed the woman  

by the front of her leather robes and threw her screaming thirty feet over the pews.

Four novitiates had lifted up the High Priest's bier and were carrying it at a quick trot along the east side  

of the cathedral as they headed toward the front entrance of the building.

Page 202

Seeing them escaping, Eragon uttered a roar and bounded onto the altar, knocking a plate and goblet to  

the floor. From there, he jumped out over the bodies of the fallen priests. He landed lightly in the aisle  

and sprinted to the end of the cathedral, heading off the novitiates.

Seeing them escaping, Eragon uttered a roar and bounded onto the altar, knocking a plate and goblet to  

the floor. From there, he jumped out over the bodies of the fallen priests. He landed lightly in the aisle  

and sprinted to the end of the cathedral, heading off the novitiates.

The novitiates yelped and turned sideways, darting between two rows of pews. Before they had gone  

more than a few feet, Solembum stepped around the end of the pews and began to pad toward them.  

The werecat's ears were pressed flat against his skull, and the constant low rumble of his growl made  

Eragon's neck prickle. Close behind him came Angela, striding down the cathedral from the altar, her  

poniard in one hand and a green and yellow dart in the other.

Eragon wondered how many weapons she had about herself.

To their credit, the novitiates did not lose their courage or abandon their master. Instead, the four  

shouted and ran even faster at Solembum, presumably because the werecat was the smallest and the  

closest of their opponents, and because they believed he would be the easiest to overcome.

They were mistaken.

In a single lithe movement, Solembum crouched, jumped from the floor to the top of a pew. Then,  

without stopping, he leaped toward one of the two lead novitiates.

As the werecat sailed through the air, the High Priest shouted something in the ancient language-Eragon  

did not recognize the word, but the sound of it was unmistakably that of the elves' native language.  

Whatever the spell was, it seemed to have no effect on Solembum, although Eragon saw Angela stumble  

as if she had been struck.

Solembum collided with the novitiate at whom he had flung himself, and the young man tumbled to the  

floor, screaming as Solembum mauled him. The rest of the novitiates tripped over their companion's  

body, and the lot of them fell in a tangled heap, spilling the High Priest off its bier and onto one of the  

pews, where the creature lay squirming like a maggot.

Eragon caught up with them a second later, and with three swift strokes, he slew all of the novitiates,  

save the one whose neck Solembum held clamped between his jaws.

Once Eragon was sure the men were dead, he turned to strike down the High Priest once and for all. As  

he started toward the limbless figure, another mind invaded his, probing and grasping at the most intimate  

parts of his self, seeking to control his thoughts. The vicious attack forced Eragon to stop and  

concentrate on defending himself from the intruder.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Arya and Solembum also appeared immobilized. The herbalist  

was the sole exception. She paused for a moment when the attack commenced, but then she continued  

to walk with slow, shuffling steps toward Eragon.

The High Priest stared at Eragon, its deep-set, dark-ringed eyes burning with hate and fury. If the  

creature had had arms and legs, Eragon was convinced that it would have tried to tear out his heart with  

its bare hands. As it was, the malevolence of its gaze was so intense, Eragon half expected the priest to

Page 203

wiggle off the pew and start biting at his ankles.

wiggle off the pew and start biting at his ankles.

At last Angela turned in to the space between the pews. She picked her way around Solembum-who  

crouched next to the novitiate he had killed, every hair on his body standing on end-and then carefully  

made her way over the corpses of the three novitiates Eragon had slain.

As she approached, the High Priest began to thrash like a hooked fish in an attempt to push itself farther  

up the pew. At the same time, the pressure on Eragon's mind lessened, although not enough for him to  

risk moving.

The herbalist stopped when she reached the High Priest, and the High Priest surprised Eragon by giving  

up its struggle and lying panting on the seat of the bench. For a minute, the hollow-eyed creature and the  

short, stern-faced woman glared at each other, an invisible battle of wills taking place between them.

Then the High Priest flinched, and a smile appeared on Angela's lips. She dropped her poniard and,  

from within her dress, drew forth a tiny dagger with a blade the color of a ruddy sunset. Leaning over the  

High Priest, she whispered, ever so faintly, "You ought to know my name, tongueless one. If you had,  

you never would have dared oppose us. Here, let me tell it to you...."

Her voice dropped even lower then, too low for Eragon to hear, but as she spoke, the High Priest  

blanched, and its puckered mouth opened, forming a round black oval, and an unearthly howl emanated  

from its throat, and the whole of the cathedral rang with the creature's baying.

"Oh, be quiet!" exclaimed the herbalist, and she buried her sunset-colored dagger in the center of the  

High Priest's chest.

The blade flashed white-hot and vanished with a sound like a far-off thunderclap. The area around the  

wound glowed like burning wood; then skin and flesh began to disintegrate into a fine, dark soot that  

poured into the High Priest's chest. With a choked gargle, the creature's howl ceased as abruptly as it  

had begun.

The spell quickly devoured the rest of the High Priest, reducing its body to a pile of black powder, the  

shape of which matched the outline of the priest's head and torso.

"And good riddance," said Angela with a firm nod.

THETOLLING OF THEBELL

Page 204

ragon shook himself as if waking from a bad dream.

ragon shook himself as if waking from a bad dream.

Murtagh and Thorn will be here soon, he thought.We have to leave before then .

He sheathed Tinkledeath and handed it to Angela. "Here," he said, "I think you'll want this." Then he  

pulled the corpses of the novitiates aside until he uncovered Brisingr. As his hand closed around the hilt, a  

sense of relief swept through him. Though the herbalist's sword was a good and dangerous blade, it was  

nothis weapon. Without Brisingr, he felt exposed, vulnerable-the same as he did whenever he and  

Saphira were apart.

It took him another few moments of searching to find his ring, which had rolled under one of the pews,  

and his necklace, which was wrapped around one of the handles of the bier. Among the pile of bodies,  

he also discovered Arya's sword, which she was pleased to recover. But of his belt, the belt of Beloth  

the Wise, there was no sign.

Eragon looked under all the nearby pews, and he even ran back to the altar and inspected the area  

around it.

"It's not here," he finally said, despairing. He turned toward the freestanding wall that hid the entrance to  

the underground chambers. "They must have left it in the tunnels." He cast his gaze in the direction of the  

priory. "Or maybe ..." He hesitated, torn between the two options.

Muttering the words under his breath, he cast a spell designed to find and lead him to the belt, but the  

only result he received was an image of smooth gray emptiness. As he had feared, there were wards  

around the belt that protected it from magical observation or interference, just as similar wards protected  

Brisingr.

Eragon scowled and took a half step toward the freestanding wall.

The bell tolled louder than ever.

"Eragon," called Arya from the other end of the cathedral, shifting the unconscious novitiate from one  

shoulder to the other. "We have to go."

"But-"

"Oromis would understand. It's not your fault."

"But-"

"Leave it! The belt has been lost before. We will find it again. But for now, we must fly. Hurry!"

Eragon cursed, spun around, and ran to join Arya, Angela, and Solembum at the front of the cathedral.  

Of all the things to lose ... It seemed almost sacrilegious to abandon the belt when so many creatures  

had died to fill it with energy. Besides, he had a horrible feeling that he might have need of that energy  

before the day was out.

Page 205

Even as he and the herbalist pushed open the heavy doors that led out of the cathedral, Eragon sent his  

mind questing for Saphira, who he knew would be circling high above the city, waiting for him to contact  

her. The time for discretion had long since passed, and Eragon no longer cared if Murtagh or some other  

magician sensed his presence.

Even as he and the herbalist pushed open the heavy doors that led out of the cathedral, Eragon sent his  

mind questing for Saphira, who he knew would be circling high above the city, waiting for him to contact  

her. The time for discretion had long since passed, and Eragon no longer cared if Murtagh or some other  

magician sensed his presence.

What took you so long?exclaimed Saphira. He could taste her worry, and he knew she had been  

considering descending upon Dras-Leona and tearing it to pieces in search of him.

He poured his memories into her, sharing everything that had happened to him since they parted. The  

process took a few seconds, by which time he, Arya, Angela, and the werecat had exited the cathedral  

and were running down the front steps.

Without pausing to give Saphira an opportunity to make sense of his jumbled recollections, Eragon said,

We need a distraction-now!

She acknowledged his statement, and he could feel her tip into a steep dive.

Also, tell Nasuada to start her attack. We'll be at the south gate in a few minutes. If the Varden  

aren't there when we open it, I don't know how we're going to escape.

BLACK-SHRIKE-THORN-CAVE

he cool, moist, morning-air-off-water whistled past Saphira's head as she dove toward the  

rat-nest-city half lit by the rising sun. The low rays of light made the smelly-wood-eggshell-buildings stand  

out in high relief, their western sides black with shadow.

The wolf-elf-in-Eragon's-shape who was riding on her back shouted something at her, but the hungry  

wind tore at his words, and she could not make out his meaning. He began to ask her questions with his  

song-filled-mind, but she did not wait to let him finish. Instead, she told him of Eragon's plight and asked  

him to alert Nasuada that now was the time for action.

How the shadow-of-Eragon that Blödhgarm wore was supposed to fool anyone, Saphira could not  

understand. He did not smell like her partner-of-heart-and-mind, nor did his thoughts feel like Eragon's.  

Still, the two-legs seemed impressed by the apparition, and it was two-legs they were trying to fool.

On the left side of the rat-nest-city, the glittering shape of Thorn lay stretched out along the battlements  

above the southern gate. He lifted his crimson head, and she could tell that he had spotted her hurtling  

toward the break-bone-ground, as she had expected. Her feelings toward Thorn were too complicated

Page 206

to sum up in a few brief impressions. Every time she thought of him, she became confused and uncertain,  

something she was unaccustomed to.

to sum up in a few brief impressions. Every time she thought of him, she became confused and uncertain,  

something she was unaccustomed to.

As the dark chimneys and sharp-edged roofs grew larger, she spread her wings a bit more, feeling the  

increased strain in her chest, shoulders, and wing muscles as she began to slow their descent. When she  

was only a few hundred feet above the closely packed swell of buildings, she swooped upward and  

allowed her wings to snap out to their full extent. The effort required to stop her fall was immense; for a  

moment, it felt as if the wind might tear her wings free of their sockets.

She shifted her tail to maintain balance, then wheeled over the city until she located the  

black-shrike-thorn-cave where the blood-mad-priests worshipped. Tucking in her wings again, she  

dropped the last number of feet and, with a thunderous crash, landed on the middle of the cathedral's  

roof.

She dug her claws into the tiles of the roof to stop herself from sliding off into the street below. Then she  

threw back her head and roared as loudly as she could, challenging the world and everything in it.

There was a bell clanging in the tower of the building next to the black-shrike-thorn-cave. She found the  

noise irritating, so she twisted her neck and loosed a jet of blue and yellow flame at it. The tower did not  

catch fire, as it was stone, but the rope and beams supporting the bell ignited, and a few seconds later,  

the bell fell crashing into the interior of the tower.

That pleased her, as did the two-legs-round-ears who ran screaming from the area. She was a dragon,  

after all. It was only right that they should fear her.

One of the two-legs paused by the edge of the square in front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave, and she  

heard him shout a spell at her, his voice like the squeaking of a frightened mouse. Whatever the spell was,  

Eragon's wards shielded her from it-at least she assumed they did, for she noticed no difference in how  

she felt or in the appearance of the world around her.

The wolf-elf-in-Eragon's-shape killed the magician for her. She could feel how Blödhgarm grasped hold  

of the spellcaster's mind and wrestled the two-legs-round-ears' thoughts into submission, whereupon  

Blödhgarm uttered a single word in the ancient-elf-magic-language, and the two-legs-round-ears fell to  

the ground, blood seeping from his open mouth.

Then the wolf-elf tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Ready yourself, Brightscales. Here they come."

She saw Thorn rising above the edge of the rooftops, Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh a small, dark figure  

on his back. In the light of the morning sun, Thorn shone and sparkled almost as brilliantly as she herself  

did. Her scales were cleaner than his, though, as she had taken special care when grooming earlier. She  

could not imagine going into battle looking anything but her best. Her enemies should not only fear her,  

but admire her.

She knew it was vanity on her part, but she did not care. No other race could match the grandeur of the  

dragons. Also, she was the last female of her kind, and she wanted those who saw her to marvel at her  

appearance and to remember her well, so if dragons were to vanish forevermore, two-legs would  

continue to speak of them with the proper respect, awe, and wonder.

As Thorn climbed a thousand or more feet above the rat-nest-city, Saphira spared a quick glance

Page 207

around to make sure that partner-of-her-heart-and-mind-Eragon was nowhere near the  

black-shrike-thorn-cave. She did not want to hurt him by accident in the fight that was about to take  

place. He was a fierce hunter, but he was small and easily squished.

around to make sure that partner-of-her-heart-and-mind-Eragon was nowhere near the  

black-shrike-thorn-cave. She did not want to hurt him by accident in the fight that was about to take  

place. He was a fierce hunter, but he was small and easily squished.

Once Thorn reached an appropriate height, he twisted round and dove toward her, flames shooting from  

his open maw.

The fire she did not fear-Eragon's wards would shield her from it-but Thorn's massive weight and  

strength would allow him to quickly exhaust any spells designed to shield her from physical danger. To  

protect herself, she ducked and pressed her body flat against the cathedral, even as she twisted her neck  

and snapped at Thorn's pale underbelly.

A swirling wall of flames engulfed her, rumbling and roaring like a giant waterfall. The flames were so  

bright, she instinctively closed her inner eyelids, the same as she would when underwater, and then the  

light was no longer blinding.

The flames soon cleared, and as Thorn rushed past overhead, the tip of his thick, rib-bruising tail traced  

a line across the membrane of her right wing. The scratch bled, but not profusely, and she did not think it  

would cause her much difficulty while flying, painful though it was.

Thorn dove at her again and again, trying to bait her into taking to the air. She refused to budge,  

however, and after a few more passes, he tired of harrying her and landed on the other end of the  

black-shrike-thorn-cave, his huge wings outstretched for balance.

The entire building shook as Thorn dropped to all fours, and many of the gem-glass-picture-windows in  

the walls below shattered and fell tinkling to the ground. Thorn was bigger than her now, as a result of the  

egg-breaker-Galbatorix's meddling, but she was not intimidated. She had more experience than Thorn,  

and besides, she had trained with Glaedr, who had been larger than both she and Thorn combined. Also,  

Thorn dared not kill her ... nor did she think he wanted to.

The red dragon snarled and stepped forward, the tips of his claws scraping against the tiles on the roof.  

She snarled in return and retreated several feet, until she could feel her tail pressing against the base of the  

spires that rose up like a wall at the front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave.

The tip of Thorn's tail twitched, and she knew he was about to pounce.

She drew in her breath and bathed him in a torrent of flickering flames. Her task now was to keep Thorn  

and Murtagh from realizing that it was not Eragon who was sitting on her. To that end, she could either  

stay far enough away from Thorn that Murtagh would be unable to read the thoughts of the  

wolf-elf-in-Eragon's-shape, or she could attack often and ferociously enough that Murtagh would not  

have the opportunity-which would be difficult, as Murtagh was used to fighting from Thorn's back even  

while Thorn turned and twisted through the air. Still, they were close to the ground, and that would help  

her, for she preferred to attack. Always to attack.

"Is that the best you can do?" Murtagh shouted with a magically enhanced voice from within the

Page 208

ever-shifting cocoon of fire.

ever-shifting cocoon of fire.

They landed with a crash that split paving stones and jarred the nearby houses. Something cracked in  

Thorn's left wing-shoulder, and his back arched unnaturally as Murtagh's wards kept the dragon from  

crushing him flat.

Saphira could hear Murtagh cursing from underneath Thorn, and she decided that it would be best to  

move away before the angry two-legs-round-ears started casting spells.

She jumped up, kicking Thorn in the belly as she did so, and alit on the peak of the house behind the red  

dragon. The building was too weak to support her, so she took flight again and, just for good measure,  

set the row of buildings on fire.

Let them deal with that, she thought, satisfied, as the flames gnawed hungrily at the wooden structures.

Returning to the black-shrike-thorn-cave, she slipped her claws under the tiles and began to tear open  

the roof, ripping it apart the same as she had ripped apart the roof of the castle in Durza-Gil'ead. Only  

now she was bigger. Now she was stronger. And the blocks of stone seemed to weigh no more than  

pebbles did to Eragon. The blood-mad-priests who worshipped within had hurt the  

partner-of-her-heart-and-mind, had hurt dragon-blood-elf-Arya, young-face-old-mind-Angela, and the  

werecat Solembum-he of the many names-and they had killed Wyrden. For that, Saphira was  

determined to destroy the black-shrike-thorn-cave in revenge.

Within seconds, she opened a gaping hole in the ceiling of the building. She filled the interior with a burst  

of flame, then hooked her claws into the ends of the brass pipes of the wind organ and pulled them free  

of the rear wall of the cathedral. They fell clanging and crashing onto the pews below.

Thorn roared, and then he sprang up from the street into the air above the black-shrike-thorn-cave and  

hung there, flapping heavily to maintain his position. He appeared as a featureless black silhouette against  

the wall of flames rising from the houses behind him, save for his translucent wings, which glowed orange  

and crimson.

He lunged toward her, reaching out with his serrated claws.

Saphira waited until the last possible moment; then she leaped to the side, off the  

black-shrike-thorn-cave, and Thorn rammed headfirst into the base of the cathedral's central spire. The  

tall-hole-ridden-stone-spike shuddered under the impact, and the very top of it-an ornate golden  

rod-toppled over and plunged more than four hundred feet to the square below.

Roaring with frustration, Thorn struggled to right himself. His hindquarters slid into the opening Saphira  

had torn in the roof, and he scrabbled against the tiles as he tried to claw his way back out.

While he did, Saphira flew to the front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave and positioned herself on the  

opposite side of the spire Thorn had collided with.

Page 209

She gathered her strength, then batted the spire with her right forepaw.

She gathered her strength, then batted the spire with her right forepaw.

Thorn's bellowing took on a frantic note as he realized what she was doing, and he strove even harder  

to pull himself free.

On Saphira's third blow, the tall-stone-spike cracked at the base and, with agonizing slowness,  

collapsed backward, falling toward the roof. Thorn only had time to utter a furious snarl, and then the  

tower of rubble landed on top of him, knocking him down into the shell of the ruined building and burying  

him under piles of rubble.

The sound of the spire smashing to pieces echoed across the whole of the rat-nest-city, like a clap of  

rolling thunder.

Saphira snarled in response, this time with a sense of savage victory. Thorn would dig himself out soon  

enough, but until then, he was at her mercy.

Tilting her wings, she circled the black-shrike-thorn-cave. As she passed along the sides of the building,  

she swung at the fluted buttresses that supported the walls, demolishing them one at a time. The blocks of  

stone tumbled to the ground, creating an unpleasant din.

When she had removed all the buttressess, the unsupported walls began to sway and bulge outward.  

Thorn's efforts to extricate himself only worsened the situation, and after a few seconds, the walls gave  

way. The entire structure collapsed with an avalanche-like rumble, and a huge plume of dust billowed  

upward.

Saphira crowed with triumph; then she landed on her hind legs next to the mound of debris and  

proceeded to paint the blocks of stone with the hottest stream of fire she could summon forth. Flames  

were easy to deflect with magic, but deflecting actual heat required greater effort and energy. By forcing  

Murtagh to expend even more of his strength to keep Thorn and himself from being cooked alive, as well  

as whatever energy he was using to avoid being squished, she hoped to deplete his reserves enough that  

Eragon and the two-legs-pointed-ears might have a chance of defeating him.

While she breathed fire, the wolf-elf on her back chanted spells, though what they were for she did not  

know, nor did she particularly care. She trusted the two-legs. Whatever he was doing, she was sure it  

would help.

Saphira skittered backward as the blocks in the center of the mound exploded outward and, with a roar,  

Thorn lurched free of the rubble. His wings were crumpled like those of a stepped-on butterfly, and he  

was bleeding from several gashes along his legs and back.

He glared at her and snarled, his ruby eyes dark with battle rage. For the first time, she had truly angered  

him, and she could see that he was eager to tear at her flesh and taste her blood.

Good, she thought. Maybe he was not quite such a beaten-frightened-cur as she had assumed.

Murtagh reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a small round object. From experience, Saphira  

knew that it was enchanted and he would use it to heal Thorn's injuries.

Page 210

Without waiting, she took flight, trying to gain as much altitude as possible before Thorn was able to set  

off in pursuit. She glanced down after a few wing beats and saw him rising toward her at a furious speed,  

a large-red-sharp-claw-sparrowhawk.

Without waiting, she took flight, trying to gain as much altitude as possible before Thorn was able to set  

off in pursuit. She glanced down after a few wing beats and saw him rising toward her at a furious speed,  

a large-red-sharp-claw-sparrowhawk.

Saphira!

Alarmed, she continued to twist until she was aimed at the southern arch-gate of the city, where she had  

sensed Eragon's presence. She pulled in her wings as close as she dared and dropped in a steep angle  

toward the arch.

Thorn lunged at her as she plummeted past, and she knew without looking that he was following close  

behind.

And so the two of them raced toward the thin wall of the rat-nest-city, and the cool  

morning-air-off-water howled like a wounded wolf in Saphira's ears.

HAMMER ANDHELM

t last!thought Roran as the Varden's horns sounded the advance.

He glanced at Dras-Leona and caught a glimpse of Saphira diving toward the dark mass of buildings,  

her scales blazing in the light of the rising sun. Below, Thorn stirred, like some great cat that had been  

sunning itself on a fence, and took off in pursuit.

A surge of energy coursed through Roran. The time for battle had finally arrived, and he was eager to be  

done with it. He spared a quick thought of concern for Eragon, then pushed himself off the log where he  

was sitting and trotted over to join the rest of the men as they gathered in a wide rectangular formation.

Roran glanced up and down the ranks, checking that the troops were ready. They had been waiting for  

most of the night, and the men were tired, but he knew that fear and excitement would soon clear their  

minds. Roran was tired as well, but he paid it no mind; he could sleep when the battle was over. Until  

then, his main concern was keeping his men and himself alive.

He did wish he had time for a cup of hot tea, though, to help settle his stomach. He had eaten something  

bad for dinner and had been racked with cramps and nausea ever since. Still, the discomfort was not  

enough to prevent him from fighting. Or so he hoped.

Satisfied with the state of his men, Roran pulled on his helm, pushing it down over his quilted arming cap.  

Then he drew his hammer and slipped his left arm through the straps on his shield.

"At your command," said Horst, walking up to him.

Page 211

Roran nodded. He had chosen the smith as his second in command, a decision that Nasuada had  

accepted without dissent. Other than Eragon, there was no one Roran would rather have by his side. It  

was selfish of him, he knew-Horst had a newborn child, and the Varden needed his metalworking  

skills-but Roran could not think of anyone else as well suited for the job. Horst had not seemed  

especially pleased by the promotion, but neither had he seemed upset. Instead, he had gone about  

organizing Roran's battalion with the calm assurance and competency that Roran knew he possessed.

Roran nodded. He had chosen the smith as his second in command, a decision that Nasuada had  

accepted without dissent. Other than Eragon, there was no one Roran would rather have by his side. It  

was selfish of him, he knew-Horst had a newborn child, and the Varden needed his metalworking  

skills-but Roran could not think of anyone else as well suited for the job. Horst had not seemed  

especially pleased by the promotion, but neither had he seemed upset. Instead, he had gone about  

organizing Roran's battalion with the calm assurance and competency that Roran knew he possessed.

He took the lead as the many hundreds of men started off, accompanied on either side by the Varden's  

four other battalions.

As the warriors trotted across the open fields that separated them from Dras-Leona, cries of alarm rang  

out in the city. Bells and horns sounded a moment later, and soon the whole city was filled with an angry  

clamor as the defenders roused themselves. Adding to the commotion were the most terrible roars and  

crashes from the center of the city, where the two dragons were fighting. Occasionally, Roran saw one or  

another of them appear above the tops of the buildings, the dragon's hide bright and sparkling, but for the  

most part, the two giants remained hidden from sight.

The maze of ramshackle buildings that surrounded the city walls quickly drew near. The narrow, gloomy  

streets looked ominous and foreboding to Roran. It would be easy for the Empire's soldiers-or even  

the citizens of Dras-Leona-to ambush them within the twisting passageways. Fighting in such close  

quarters would be even more brutal, confusing, and messy than normal. If it came to that, Roran knew  

that few of his men would escape unscathed.

As he moved into the shadows beneath the eaves of the first line of hovels, a hard knot of unease settled  

in Roran's gut, exacerbating his queasiness. He licked his lips, feeling sick.

Eragon had better open that gate, he thought.If not ... we'll be stuck out here like so many lambs  

penned up for slaughter .

AND THEWALLSFELL ...

he sound of crashing masonry caused Eragon to pause and look back.

Between the peaks of two distant houses, he saw an empty space where the barbed spire of the  

cathedral used to be. In its place, a column of dust billowed toward the clouds above, like a pillar of  

white smoke.

Eragon smiled to himself, proud of Saphira. When it came to spreading chaos and destruction, dragons  

were without equal.Go on , he thought.Smash it to pieces! Bury their holy places under a thousand  

feet of stone!

Page 212

Then he resumed trotting down the dark, winding cobblestone street, along with Arya, Angela, and  

Solembum. There were a number of people already in the streets: merchants going to open their shops,  

night watchmen on their way to bed, drunk noblemen just emerging from their revels, vagrants sleeping in  

doorways, as well as soldiers running pell-mell toward the city walls.

Then he resumed trotting down the dark, winding cobblestone street, along with Arya, Angela, and  

Solembum. There were a number of people already in the streets: merchants going to open their shops,  

night watchmen on their way to bed, drunk noblemen just emerging from their revels, vagrants sleeping in  

doorways, as well as soldiers running pell-mell toward the city walls.

It helped, Eragon supposed, that he and Arya could pass for ordinary humans on brief inspection.

At Eragon's insistence, Arya had deposited the unconscious novitiate in an alleyway a fair distance from  

the cathedral. "I promised we'd take him with us," Eragon had explained, "but I never said how far. He  

can find his own way from here." Arya had acquiesced and seemed relieved to be rid of the novitiate's  

weight.

As the four of them hurried down the street, a strange sense of familiarity came over Eragon. His last  

visit to Dras-Leona had ended in much the same way: with him running between the dirty, close-set  

buildings, hoping to reach one of the city's gates before the Empire found him. Only this time he had  

more to fear than just the Ra'zac.

He glanced toward the cathedral again. All Saphira had to do was keep Murtagh and Thorn busy for  

another few minutes, and then it would be too late for either of them to stop the Varden. However,  

minutes could be like hours during a battle, and Eragon was acutely aware of how fast the balance of  

power could change.

Hold fast!he thought, though he did not send his words to Saphira, lest he distract her or give away his  

position.Just a little longer!

The streets grew ever narrower as they approached the city wall, and the overhanging buildings-houses  

mostly-blocked out everything but a thin strip of the azure sky. Sewage lay stagnant in the gutters along  

the edges of the buildings; Eragon and Arya used their sleeves to mask their noses and mouths. The  

stench seemed not to affect the herbalist, although Solembum growled and whipped his tail in annoyance.

A flicker of movement on the roof of a nearby building caught Eragon's attention, but whatever caused it  

had vanished by the time he looked. He continued to gaze upward and, after a few moments, began to  

pick out certain odd sights: a patch of white against the soot-coated bricks of a chimney; strange pointed  

shapes outlined against the morning sky; a small oval spot, the size of a coin, that gleamed firelike in the  

shadows.

With a shock, he realized that the rooftops were lined with dozens of werecats, all in their animal form.  

The werecats ran from building to building, watching silently from above as Eragon and his companions  

threaded their way through the dim maze of the city.

Eragon knew that the elusive shapeshifters would not deign to help except in the most desperate of  

circumstances-they wished to keep their involvement with the Varden a secret from Galbatorix for as  

long as possible-but he found it heartening to have them so close.

The street ended at an intersection of five other lanes. Eragon consulted with Arya and the herbalist; then

Page 213

they decided to take the path opposite theirs and continue in the same direction.

they decided to take the path opposite theirs and continue in the same direction.

Eragon stopped.

Hundreds of soldiers stood gathered before the gate. The men milled about in seeming confusion as they  

donned weapons and armor, and their commanders bellowed orders at them. The golden thread stitched  

onto the soldiers' crimson tunics glittered as they rushed to and fro.

The presence of the soldiers dismayed Eragon, but he was even more dismayed to see that the city's  

defenders had piled a huge mound of rubble against the inside of the gates, to keep the Varden from  

battering them in.

Eragon swore. The mound was so large, it would take a team of fifty men several days to clear it away.  

Saphira could dig the gates free in a few minutes, but Murtagh and Thorn would never give her the  

opportunity.

We need another distraction, he thought. What that distraction should be, however, eluded him.  

Saphira! he cried, casting his thoughts out toward her. She heard him, of that he was sure, but he had no  

time to explain the situation to her, for at that very moment, one of the soldiers stopped and pointed at  

Eragon and his companions.

"Rebels!"

Eragon tore Brisingr from its scabbard and sprang forward before the rest of the soldiers could heed the  

man's warning. He had no other choice. To retreat would be to abandon the Varden to the mercies of  

the Empire. Besides, he could not leave Saphira to deal with both the walland the soldiers by herself.

He shouted as he leaped, as did Arya, who joined him in his mad charge. Together they cut their way  

into the midst of the surprised soldiers. For a few brief moments, the men were so bewildered, several  

did not seem to realize Eragon was their foe until he had stabbed them.

Flights of arrows arced down into the square from the bowmen stationed on the parapet. A handful of  

the shafts bounced off Eragon's wards. The rest killed or injured the Empire's own men.

Fast as he was, Eragon could not block all of the swords and spears and daggers poking at him. He  

could feel his strength ebbing at an alarming rate as his magic repelled the attacks. Unless he could win  

free of the press, the soldiers would end up exhausting him to the point where he could no longer fight.

With a ferocious war cry, he spun in a circle, holding Brisingr close to his waist as he scythed down all  

the soldiers standing within reach.

The iridescent blue blade cut through bone and flesh as if they were equally insubstantial. Blood trailed  

from the tip in long, twisting ribbons that slowly separated into glistening drops, like orbs of polished  

coral, while the men he cut doubled over, clutching at their bellies as they attempted to hold closed their  

wounds.

Every detail seemed bright and hard-edged, as if sculpted from glass. Eragon could make out individual  

hairs in the beard of the swordsman in front of him. He could count the drops of sweat that beaded the

Page 214

skin below the man's eyes, and he could have pointed to every stain, scuff, and tear in and on the  

swordsman's outfit.

skin below the man's eyes, and he could have pointed to every stain, scuff, and tear in and on the  

swordsman's outfit.

He completed his spin and was just moving toward the swordsman when Saphira swooped past  

overhead. Her wings were pulled tight against her body, and they fluttered like leaves in a gale. As she  

passed by, a blast of wind tousled Eragon's hair and pressed him toward the ground.

An instant later, Thorn followed Saphira, teeth bared, flames boiling in his open maw. The two dragons  

hurtled a half mile beyond Dras-Leona's yellow mud wall; then they looped around and began to race  

back.

From outside the walls, Eragon heard a loud cheer.The Varden must be almost to the gates .

A patch of skin on his left forearm burned as if someone had poured hot fat on it. He hissed and shook  

his arm, but the feeling persisted. Then he saw a blotch of blood soaking through his tunic. He glanced  

back at Saphira. It had to be dragon blood, but he could not tell whose.

As the dragons approached, Eragon took advantage of the soldiers' momentary daze to kill three more.  

Then the rest of the men regained their wits, and the battle resumed in earnest.

A soldier with a battle-ax stepped in front of Eragon and started to swing at him. Halfway through the  

stroke, Arya dispatched the man with a slash from behind, nearly cutting him in twain.

With a quick nod, Eragon acknowledged her help. By unspoken agreement, they stood back to back  

and faced the soldiers together.

He could feel Arya panting as hard as he was. Though they were stronger and faster than most humans,  

there was a limit to their endurance, a limit to their resources. They had already killed dozens, but  

hundreds remained, and Eragon knew that reinforcements would soon arrive from elsewhere in  

Dras-Leona.

"What now?" he shouted, parrying a spear jabbed at his thigh.

"Magic!" Arya replied.

As Eragon fended off the soldiers' attacks, he began to recite every spell he could think of that might kill  

their enemies.

Another gust of wind ruffled his hair, and a cool shadow swept over him as Saphira circled above,  

dissipating her excess speed. She flared her wings and started to drop toward the battlements of the wall.

Before she could land, Thorn caught up with her. The red dragon dove, breathing a jet of flame over a  

hundred feet long. Saphira roared with frustration and veered away from the wall as she flapped quickly  

to gain altitude. The two dragons spiraled around each other as they climbed into the sky, biting and  

clawing with furious abandon.

Seeing Saphira in danger only reinforced Eragon's determination. He increased the speed with which he

Page 215

spoke, chanting the words of the ancient language as quickly as he could without mispronunciation. But  

no matter what he tried, neither his spells nor Arya's had any effect on the soldiers.

spoke, chanting the words of the ancient language as quickly as he could without mispronunciation. But  

no matter what he tried, neither his spells nor Arya's had any effect on the soldiers.

Eragon looked up and saw Thorn plummeting toward the square. The red dragon's sudden change in  

direction had caught Saphira unawares. She still hung high above the city, a dark blue shape against the  

lighter blue of the sky.

They know, Eragon thought, and dread punctured his earlier calm.

He lowered his gaze and swept it over the throng. More and more soldiers were streaming out of the  

streets along either side of Dras-Leona's wall. The herbalist was backed up against one of the bordering  

houses, throwing glass vials with one hand and swinging Tinkledeath with the other. The vials released  

clouds of green vapor when they broke, and any soldiers caught in the miasma fell to the ground,  

clutching their throats and thrashing as little brown mushrooms sprang up on every inch of exposed skin.  

Behind Angela, upon a flat-topped garden wall, crouched Solembum. The werecat used his vantage  

point to claw at the soldiers' faces and pull off their helms, distracting them as they attempted to close  

with the herbalist. Both he and Angela looked beleaguered, and Eragon doubted they would be able to  

hold out much longer.

Nothing Eragon saw gave him hope. He turned his eyes back toward the immense bulk of Thorn even as  

the red dragon filled his wings with air and slowed his descent.

"We have to leave!" Arya shouted.

Eragon hesitated. It would be a simple matter to lift Arya, Angela, Solembum, and himself over the wall,  

to where the Varden would be waiting. But if they fled, the Varden would be no better off than before.  

Their army could not afford to wait any longer: after another few days, their supplies would run out and  

the men would begin to desert. Once that happened, Eragon knew they would never again succeed in  

uniting all the races against Galbatorix.

Thorn's body and wings blotted out the sky, casting the area in ruddy darkness and hiding Saphira from  

view. Globules of blood, each the size of Eragon's fist, dripped from Thorn's neck and legs, and more  

than one of the soldiers cried out in pain as the liquid scalded them.

"Eragon! Now!" shouted Arya. She grabbed his arm and pulled, but still he held his ground, unwilling to  

admit defeat.

Arya pulled harder, forcing Eragon to look down in order to stay on his feet. As he did, his eye fell on  

the third finger of his right hand, where he wore Aren.

He had hoped to save the energy contained within the ring for the day when he might finally confront  

Galbatorix. It was a meager amount compared with what the king had undoubtedly accumulated during  

his long years on the throne, but it was the greatest store of power Eragon possessed, and he knew he  

would not have the chance to gather its equal before the Varden reached Urû'baen, if indeed they did.  

Also, it was one of the few things Brom had left him. For both those reasons he was reluctant to use any  

of the energy.

Nevertheless, he could think of no alternative.

Page 216

The pool of energy within Aren had always seemed enormous to Eragon; now he wondered if it would  

be enough for what he intended.

The pool of energy within Aren had always seemed enormous to Eragon; now he wondered if it would  

be enough for what he intended.

Eragon drew in his breath, then he breached Aren's precious hoard and shouted, "Jierda!"

The torrent of energy that flowed through him was greater than any he had ever experienced; it was like  

an ice-cold river that burned and tingled with almost unbearable intensity. The sensation was both  

agonizing and ecstatic.

At his command, the huge pile of rubble blocking the gates erupted toward the sky in a solid pillar of  

earth and stone. The rubble struck Thorn in the side, shredding his wing and knocking the screeching  

dragon beyond the outskirts of Dras-Leona. Then the pillar spread outward, forming a loose canopy  

over the southern half of the city.

The launch of the rubble shook the square and drove everyone to the ground. Eragon landed on his  

hands and knees and remained there, staring upward as he maintained the spell.

When the energy in the ring was almost depleted, he whispered, "Gánga raehta." Like a dark  

thunderhead caught in a gale, the plume drifted to the right, in the direction of the docks and Leona Lake.  

Eragon continued to push the rubble away from the center of the city for as long as he could; then, as the  

last remnants of the energy coursed through him, he ended the spell.

With a deceptively soft sound, the cloud of debris collapsed inward. The heavier elements-the stones,  

the broken pieces of wood, and the clumps of dirt-fell straight down, pummeling the surface of the lake,  

while the smaller particles remained suspended in the air, forming a large brown smudge that slowly  

drifted farther west.

Where the rubble had been was now an empty crater. Broken paving stones edged the hollow, like a  

circle of shattered teeth. The gates to the city hung open, warped and splintered, damaged beyond  

repair.

Through the off-kilter gates, Eragon saw the Varden massed in the streets beyond. He released his  

breath and allowed his head to fall forward in exhaustion.It worked , he thought, dumbfounded. Then he  

slowly pushed himself upright, vaguely aware that the danger had not yet passed.

While the soldiers struggled to their feet, the Varden poured into Dras-Leona, shouting war cries and  

banging their swords on their shields. A few seconds later, Saphira landed among them, and what had  

been about to turn into a pitched battle became a rout as the soldiers scrambled to save themselves.

Eragon glimpsed Roran among the sea of men and dwarves but lost sight of him before he could catch  

his cousin's attention.

Arya ...?Eragon turned and was alarmed to find that she was not next to him. He broadened his search  

and soon spotted her halfway across the square, surrounded by twenty or so soldiers. The men were  

holding her arms and legs with grim tenacity as they tried to drag her away. Arya freed one of her hands  

and struck a man in the chin, breaking his neck, but another soldier took his place before she could swing  

again.

Page 217

Eragon sprinted toward her. In his exhaustion, he let his sword arm swing too low, and the tip of Brisingr  

caught on the mail hauberk of a fallen soldier, tearing the hilt from his grip. The sword clattered to the  

ground, and Eragon hesitated, not sure if he should turn back, but then he saw two of the soldiers  

stabbing at Arya with daggers, and he redoubled his speed.

Eragon sprinted toward her. In his exhaustion, he let his sword arm swing too low, and the tip of Brisingr  

caught on the mail hauberk of a fallen soldier, tearing the hilt from his grip. The sword clattered to the  

ground, and Eragon hesitated, not sure if he should turn back, but then he saw two of the soldiers  

stabbing at Arya with daggers, and he redoubled his speed.

Afterward, Arya said, "I would have been able to defeat them on my own."

Eragon leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "I know...." He nodded  

toward her right hand-the one she had injured pulling through the iron cuff-which she held curled  

against her leg. "Consider it my thanks."

"A grim sort of present." But she said it with a faint smile on her lips.

Most of the soldiers had fled the square; those who remained were backed against the houses, hemmed  

in by the Varden. Even as Eragon looked about, he saw scores of Galbatorix's men throw down their  

weapons and surrender.

Together he and Arya retrieved his sword, and then they walked to the yellow mud wall, where the  

ground was relatively clear of filth. Sitting against the wall, they watched the Varden march into the city.

Saphira soon joined them. She nuzzled Eragon, who smiled and scratched her snout. She hummed in  

response.You did it , she said.

We did it, he replied.

Up on her back, Blödhgarm loosened the straps that held his legs in Saphira's saddle, then slid down her  

side. For a moment, Eragon had the supremely disorienting experience of meeting himself. He  

immediately decided that he disliked how his hair curled at the temples.

Blödhgarm uttered an indistinct word in the ancient language; then his shape shimmered like a heat  

reflection and he was once again himself: tall, furred, yellow-eyed, long-eared, and sharp-toothed. He  

appeared neither elf nor human, but in his tense, hard-set expression, Eragon detected the stamp of  

sorrow and anger combined.

"Shadeslayer," he said, and bowed to both Arya and Eragon. "Saphira has told me of Wyrden's fate.  

I-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the ten remaining elves under Blödhgarm's command emerged from  

within the press of the Varden and hurried over, swords in hand.

"Shadeslayer!" they exclaimed. "Argetlam! Brightscales!"

Eragon greeted them tiredly and strove to answer their questions, even though he would rather have

Page 218

done nothing at all.

done nothing at all.

Eragon cursed and scrambled onto Saphira, drawing Brisingr, while Arya, Blödhgarm, and the other  

elves formed a protective circle around her. Their combined might was formidable, but whether it would  

be enough to fend off Murtagh, Eragon did not know.

As one, the Varden gazed upward. Brave they might be, but even the bravest might shrink before a  

dragon.

"Brother!" shouted Murtagh, his augmented voice so loud that Eragon covered his ears. "I'll have blood  

from you for the injuries you caused Thorn! Take Dras-Leona if you want. It means nothing to  

Galbatorix. But you've not seen the last of us, Eragon Shadeslayer, that I swear."

And then Thorn turned and flew north over Dras-Leona, and soon vanished within the veil of smoke that  

rose from the houses burning next to the ruined cathedral.

BY THEBANKS OFLAKELEONA

ragon strode through the darkened camp, his jaw set and his fists clenched.

He had spent the last few hours in conference with Nasuada, Orik, Arya, Garzhvog, King Orrin, and  

their various advisers, discussing the day's events and assessing the Varden's current situation. Near the  

end of the meeting, they had contacted Queen Islanzadí to inform her that the Varden had captured  

Dras-Leona, as well as to tell her of Wyrden's death.

Eragon had not enjoyed explaining to the queen how one of her oldest and most powerful spellcasters  

had died, nor had the queen been pleased to receive the news. Her initial reaction had been one of such  

sadness, it surprised him; he had not thought she knew Wyrden that well.

Talking with Islanzadí had left Eragon in a foul mood, for it had reinforced for him how random and  

unnecessary Wyrden's death had been.If I had been in the lead, I would have been the one impaled  

on those spikes , he thought as he continued his search through the camp.Or it could have been Arya .

Saphira knew what he was up to, but she had decided to return to the space by his tent where she  

normally slept, for as she said,If I go tromping up and down the rows of tents, I'll keep the Varden  

awake, and they have earned their rest . Their minds remained joined, though, and he knew if he  

needed her, she would be at his side within seconds.

To preserve his night vision, Eragon avoided going near the bonfires and torches that burned before  

many of the tents, but he made sure to inspect each pool of light for his prey.

As he hunted, it occurred to him that she might elude him entirely. His feelings for her were far from  

friendly, and that would allow her to sense his location and avoid him, if she wanted. Yet he did not think  

she was a coward. Despite her youth, she was one of the hardest people he had met, human, elf, or

Page 219

dwarf.

dwarf.

For a moment, Eragon stood and watched. The old woman appeared more content than he had ever  

seen her, and he found himself reluctant to disturb her repose.

Then Elva said, "Do not lose your nerve now, Eragon. Not when you have come so far." Her voice was  

curiously subdued, as if she had been crying, but when she looked up, her gaze was fierce and  

challenging.

Greta appeared startled when Eragon made his way into the light; she gathered up her yarn and needles  

and bowed, saying, "Greetings, Shadeslayer. May I offer you anything to eat or drink?"

"No, thank you." Eragon stopped before Elva and stared down at the small-framed girl. She stared  

back at him for a moment, then returned to weaving the loop of yarn between her fingers. Her violet  

eyes, he noted with a strange twist in his stomach, were the same color as the amethyst crystals the  

priests of Helgrind had used to kill Wyrden and imprison Arya and himself.

Eragon knelt and grabbed the tangle of yarn about the middle, stopping Elva's motion.

"I know what you intend to say," she stated.

"That may be," he growled, "but I'm still going to say it. You killed Wyrden-you killed him as surely as  

if you had stabbed him yourself. If you had come with us, you could have warned him about the trap.  

You could have warned all of us. I watched Wyrden die, and I watched Arya tear half her hand off,  

because ofyou . Because of your anger. Because of your stubbornness. Because of your pride.... Hate  

me if you will, but don't you dare make anyone else suffer for it. If you want the Varden to lose, then go  

join Galbatorix and be done with it. Well, is that what you want?"

Elva slowly shook her head.

"Then I don't ever want to hear that you've refused to help Nasuada for no other reason than spite, else  

there will be a reckoning between you and me, Elva Farseer, and it's not one you would win."

"You could never defeat me," she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

"You might be surprised. You have a valuable talent, Elva. The Varden needs your help, now more than  

ever. I don't know how we're going to defeat the king at Urû'baen, but if you stand with us-if you turn  

your skill against him-we might just have a chance."

Elva seemed to struggle with herself. Then she nodded, and Eragon saw that she was crying, tears  

overflowing from her eyes. He took no pleasure in her distress, but he felt a certain amount of satisfaction  

that his words had affected her so strongly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He released the yarn and stood. "Your apologies cannot bring back Wyrden. Do better in the future,  

and perhaps you can atone for your mistake."

Page 220

He nodded to the old woman Greta, who had remained silent throughout their exchange, and then he  

strode out of the light and back between the dark rows of tents.

He nodded to the old woman Greta, who had remained silent throughout their exchange, and then he  

strode out of the light and back between the dark rows of tents.

I hope so.

Upbraiding Elva had been an unusual experience for Eragon. He remembered when Brom and Garrow  

had chastised him for making mistakes, and to now find himself the one doing the chastising left him  

feeling ... different ... more mature.

And so the wheel turns, he thought.

He took his time walking through the camp, enjoying the cool breeze wafting off the lake hidden within  

the shadows.

* * *

After the capture of Dras-Leona, Nasuada had surprised everyone by insisting that the Varden not stay  

the night in the city. She had given no explanation for her decision, but Eragon suspected it was because  

the long delay at Dras-Leona had left her overeager to resume their journey to Urû'baen, and also  

because she had no desire to linger within the city, where any number of Galbatorix's agents might be  

lurking.

Once the Varden had secured the streets, Nasuada detailed a number of warriors to remain in the city,  

under the command of Martland Redbeard. Then the Varden had left Dras-Leona and marched north,  

following the shore of the neighboring lake. Along the way, a constant stream of messengers had ridden  

back and forth between the Varden and Dras-Leona as Martland and Nasuada conferred about the  

numerous issues attending the governance of the city.

Before the Varden had departed, Eragon, Saphira, and Blödhgarm's spellcasters had returned to the  

ruined cathedral, retrieved Wyrden's body, and searched for the belt of Beloth the Wise. It had taken  

only a few minutes for Saphira to pull aside the jumble of stone that blocked the entrance to the  

underground chambers and for Blödhgarm and the other elves to fetch Wyrden. But no matter how long  

they looked, and no matter what spells they used, they could not find the belt.

The elves had carried Wyrden on their shields out of the city, to a knoll next to a small creek. There they  

buried him while singing several aching laments in the ancient language-songs so sad that Eragon had  

wept without restraint and all the birds and animals within hearing had stopped and listened.

The silver-haired elf woman Yaela had knelt by the side of the grave, taken an acorn from the pouch on  

her belt, and planted it directly above Wyrden's chest. And then the twelve elves, Arya included, sang to  

the acorn, which took root and sprouted and grew twining upward, reaching and grasping toward the sky  

like a clutch of hands.

When the elves had finished, the leafy oak stood twenty feet high, with long strings of green flowers at  

the end of every branch.

Eragon had thought it was the nicest burial he had ever attended. He much preferred it to the dwarves'

Page 221

practice of entombing their dead in hard, cold stone deep below the ground, and he liked the idea of  

one's body providing food for a tree that might live for hundreds of years more. If he had to die, he  

decided that he would want an apple tree planted over him, so that his friends and family could eat the  

fruit born of his body.

practice of entombing their dead in hard, cold stone deep below the ground, and he liked the idea of  

one's body providing food for a tree that might live for hundreds of years more. If he had to die, he  

decided that he would want an apple tree planted over him, so that his friends and family could eat the  

fruit born of his body.

Besides searching the cathedral and retrieving Wyrden's body, Eragon had also done one other thing of  

note in Dras-Leona after its capture. He had, with Nasuada's approval, declared every slave within the  

city a free person, and he had personally gone to the manors and auction houses and cut loose many of  

the men, women, and children chained therein. The act had given him a great deal of satisfaction, and he  

hoped it would improve the lives of the people he had released.

As he drew near his tent, he saw Arya waiting for him by the entrance. Eragon quickened his stride, but  

before he could greet her, someone called out: "Shadeslayer!"

Eragon turned and saw one of Nasuada's pages trotting toward them. "Shadeslayer," the boy repeated,

somewhat out of breath, and bowed to Arya. "Lady Nasuada would like you to come to her tent an hour  

before dawn tomorrow morning, in order to confer with her. What shall I tell her, Lady Arya?"

"You may tell her I will be there when she wishes," Arya replied, inclining her head slightly.

The page bowed again, and then he spun around and ran off in the direction from which he had come.

"It's somewhat confusing, now that we've both killed a Shade," Eragon observed with a faint grin.

Arya smiled as well, the motion of her lips almost invisible in the darkness. "Would you rather I had let

Varaug live?"

"No ... no, not at all."

"I could have kept him as a slave, to do my bidding."

"Now you're teasing me," he said.

She made a soft sound of amusement.

"Perhaps I should call you Princess instead-Princess Arya." He said it again, enjoying the feel of the

words in his mouth.

"You should not call me that," she said, more serious. "I am not a princess."

"Why not? Your mother is a queen. How can you not be a princess? Her title isdröttning , yours is

dröttningu . One means 'queen,' and the other-"

"Does not mean 'princess,' " she said. "Not exactly. There is no true equivalent in this language."

"But if your mother were to die or step down from her throne, you would take her place as ruler of your

people, wouldn't you?"  

"It is not that simple."