"They followed the elves across the sea, like ticks seeking blood..."

The words of Eragon's late mentor lingered in his mind as he stood at the edge of the camp. His arms were tucked against his chest, and he scowled at the Burning Plains with indignance.

The Urgals can go through the charade of a truce. They'll always be ticks, because that's who they are. Why, even Garzhvog will act that way when it's in his mood...

Do not be hasty, little one, said Saphira. Garzhvog may not be the kind of Urgal you make him out to be. You can stand here and keep making silly assumptions without knowing all the facts, or you can do what you must.

I don't have to do anything. I know what they're like, so I know what Garzhvog is like. Confound it, they killed Murtagh. They would have killed me and Arya if we hadn't gotten to Farthen Dûr. Tell Garzhvog if he to get this over with, he'll let me into his mind.

No, Eragon... Saphira growled admonishingly. You have to let yourself into it.

Meaning?

You have to challenge your prejudices, however comfortable they are. The dragon paused. Or are you afraid to lose them?

He gave no answer. He kept staring at the smoke as it swallowed up the frowning red moon.

You're all the same. Saphira had a mocking tone in her voice. Irrational, emotional, prejudiced to a fault.

Eragon gave a start and spun to face her. You know what runs in humanity's blood, and you think that's how I'll always be? Don't you see your error?

Saphira's growl sounded like a chuckle. It's your error, little one...not mine.