Prologue

This is it, Saphira, Eragon said as he leaned forward in the saddle. The cool ocean breezetousled his hair, blowing it across his young, handsome, elven face. The next great adventure in our lives unfolds.

Saphira snorted. Smoke curled out of her nostrils and streamed back against the wind. Eragon's eyes watered and he leaned closer down against her neck to shield his face. That's one way to put it, little one. But after all we've done, this should be easy.

Eragon shook his head. His stomach was rolling with anxiety. I've never taught anyone before, Saphira. What if I mess up? What if I unknowingly create the next Galbatorix? Or Morzan, for that matter?

We won't mess up.

How do you know?

Because we know what not to do. Besides, we found ourselves in the heat of battle, through trials and tribulations that the new Riders won't have to face. We just have to remember our lessons.

Is that so?

Yes. Besides, we have help.

He glanced down at the ship bobbing in the ocean below them, the ship carrying the elves, eggs, and Eldunari. Yes, we do.

Shortly after leaving Arya, Roran, and everything else familiar behind, the ship had followed the flowing river for several leagues. Eragon and Saphira had been surprised when the river had gradually widened, until finally it had met the sea. They had thought that it would be a longer journey to the opposite ocean, but here they were, less than two days later, drifting along the open sea.

Doesn't it overwhelm you? Having this much responsibility, I mean.

Saphira beat her wings faster, and Eragon clutched one of her neck spikes. Of course not. We've had the world settled on our shoulders since the day I hatched. One would think you'd be used to it by now.

He laughed a little at that and patted her side. Her rough, glittering azure scales stung his ungloved hand a little. One would think, right? He grew serious again. I'm not complaining, Saphira. Of course not. I'm just scared.

Don't be, Saphira said gently as she tipped her wings and tilted slightly to the side to avoid a particularly aggressive gust of wind. We'll do what we always have—our absolute best.

They flew in silence, and Eragon gazed upon the empty horizon. His heart was extraordinarily heavy in his chest, and in Saphira he felt the same emotions, although she'd said nothing. He missed Arya so badly that his chest ached. Against his will, he thought about how different it would have been if she'd abandoned her duties and joined him in his quest for a new land. It tore him up inside to think that he'd never see her again.

Enough, Saphira chided him, although not unkindly. We made our choice months ago, and we couldn't ask her to abandon her people.

I know. He fell silent, and although he could tell Saphira wanted to keep talking about it, she didn't pursue the matter.

Instead she said, When do you think we'll find land?

I don't know, any more than I know what awaits us when we finally do.

Murtagh sighed as he warmed his hands by the fire. His bones were as cold as ice after riding high in the clouds on Thorn's back. A part of him welcomed the discomfort. His experiences with Galbatorix, the constant longing for Nasuada, his own confused feelings about the recent war, and the departure of his only brother gnawed at his mind. He felt as if he might go mad. He had no plan other than to eat and rest. He and Thorn had spent over six months in the wilderness, making camp in a different spot every night. He was restless and desperate to find some sort of purpose, some worth goal to pursue. His self-imposed exile was seeming less like a good idea by the minute.

Oh, give it a rest, Thorn grumbled, albeit good-naturedly. He lazily opened one eye and lifted his head off his forelegs. He was stretched lazily by the fire, taking up most of the clearing. His already crimson scales burned in the firelight. He yawned, revealing long ivory fangs. You know we did the right thing. We don't belong with them.

Murtagh grunted. He stared into the fire. His eyes burned and he longed to look away, but he forced himself to continue his gaze. Will we ever?

That's neither here nor there, isn't it?

Murtagh sighed. You're right.

Of course, Thorn agreed. He shifted his position, lying on his side and lifting his wing. Murtagh leaned against Thorn's chest, listening to the dragon's low and steady breathing. At least, Thorn continued, we are now free. It's a wonderful thing! We have our minds to ourselves and we can go where we please. You have tasted the sweetness of freedom before; I have not. For the first time in my life, I have no duties or obligations, outside of ensuring you don't get caught up in any more bloody battles with elves and family members.

Murtagh laughed out loud for the first time. His loud, hearty laughter boomed around the clearing. Frightened birds took wing as his merriment shook the leaves in the tall oak trees. Oh yes, he chuckled. Because I actually wanted that to happen.

You are an odd one, Thorn agreed humorously. In the meantime, please refrain from starting any more wars in the next few years. I want to relax.

Murtagh threw a stick into the fire, still smiling grimly. I didn't start it, I helped to end it.

Thorn snorted with amusement and kneaded the ground with his razor-sharp claws. Enough of this nattering. We're free! The war is over, the wilderness is ours for the taking, the dragons shall soon roam the skies once more, and best of all, the king is dead. You should be celebrating, not moping.

The smile slipped from Murtagh's face like water on glass. He closed his eyes and let the sorrow, the ever-present grief that he had tried to hold back since they left Uru'Baen, wash over him. He felt Thorn recoil slightly in his mind as he shared his Rider's pain. Forgive me, heart-friend. I didn't mean to make light of your anguish.

I miss her so much. I failed her. I know this is the right thing to do. She deserves better than me. Murtagh curled up against Thorn's side. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Except you, of course.

Enough, growled Thorn. He leaped to his feet, spilling Murtagh on the ground, who cursed and picked himself up from the dust. He glowered at the red dragon, but his retort died on his lips as the scarlet eyes met his own. Enough of this. I'm not going to sit here and let you drive yourself mad with these dark thoughts. What's done is done; you cannot change it. You did not fail anyone. You did your part, you saved her and all of Alagaesia, what more could you ask for? You knew the second I hatched for you that the two of you could not be together. Why do you insist to torture yourself so? She is happy.. Can you not let that be enough?

Murtagh gazed at the ground. You're right. And I will be okay. I just need to grieve.

Then grieve, my friend, but worry not; you don't have to grieve alone. I'm here. And when your mourning begins to heal the wounds in your soul, so we shall press on, for it's the two of us against the world.

And so Murtagh cried, clinging to his one true friend as he did.

Arya bit back a sigh and rubbed her temples. Immediately a swarm of concerned elves surrounded her, offering healing spells and poultices for her headache. She declined as politely as she could and watched them resume their seats at the banquet table, of which she sat at the head. The soft sunlight filtered through the leaves of the enchanted trees, bathing all that were present in the glade with warmth and light. Elves with flutes and other instruments were playing a haunting melody, and the music along with the smell of the food was making her head swim. She glanced along the table, again aware of all the slanted eyes on her, and was again puzzled.

I can never walk more than a few feet without a grand procession trailing behind me. They cater to my every whim like I am an infant. I don't understand; they never treated my mother in such a way. Is it because I am her daughter, or because I am young? Hah! I've seen more hardships than perhaps even my mother. I am not a child.

Peace, Firnen advised her from his position behind her chair. He received even more attention than the elf queen, but his initial delight had also worn away into weariness, although he still found satisfaction now and again from the constant service. He shifted slightly, and Arya could tell that he was getting impatient with the feast. He was still very young, after all, and he yearned to fly and hunt. It is neither. You are their queen, yes, but you are also a Rider—the first Rider monarch to ever grace this hall. Also, you are the first elven Rider since Oromis. We may be immortal, but a hundred years is no small time. You cannot blame them for being excited.

It's been months since I took the throne, Firnen. I am not a decorative figurehead, I am a leader. For goodness' sake, I've been back in Du Weldenvarden for three hours and I already have to attend another feast!

The emerald dragon chuckled deep in his throat. I think you have been away from your own kind for too long. This is what elves do.

Arya allowed a small smile to curve her lips. And what of dragons, what do they do?

Firnen licked his talons. Whatever we damn well please, of course.

I cannot argue with that, Arya admitted with amusement. About how much longer do you think we should be expected to sit here?

I hope that chair of yours is comfortable, Shur'tugal.