Vel Du Vindr abr Wyrda

by whattoname

What if, in a slight change of fate, the Varden managed to wrestle two eggs from Galbatorix's grasp. How would this change the story? Stick around and find out.

3. Chapter 3

Eragon's mind churned as he sped on his way. He ran as fast as he could, refusing to stop even when his breath came in great gasps. As he pounded down the cold road, he cast out with his mind for Saphira, but she was too far away for him to contact. He thought about what to say to Garrow. There was no choice now; he would have to reveal Saphira. He arrived home, panting for air and heart pounding.

Garrow stood by the barn with the horses. Eragon hesitated. Should I talk to him now? He won't believe me unless Saphira is here—I'd better find her first.

He slipped around the farm and into the forest. Saphira! he shouted with his thoughts.

I come. was the dim reply.

He waited impatiently, though it was not long before the sound of her wings filled the air. She landed amid a gout of smoke. What happened? she queried.

He touched her shoulder and closed his eyes. Calming his mind, he quickly told her what had occurred. When he mentioned the strangers, Saphira recoiled. She reared and roared deafeningly, then whipped her tail over his head. He scrambled back in surprise, ducking as her tail hit a snowdrift. Bloodlust and fear emanated from her in great sickening waves.

Fire! Enemies! Death! Murderers!

What's wrong? Eragon put all of his strength into the words, but an iron wall surrounded her mind, shielding her thoughts. She let out another roar and gouged the earth with her claws, tearing the frozen ground.

Stop it! Garrow will hear!

Oaths betrayed, souls killed, eggs shattered! Blood everywhere. Murderers! Frantic, he blocked out Saphira's emotions and watched her tail. When it flicked past him, he dashed to her side and grabbed a spike on her back. Clutching it, he pulled himself into the small hollow at the base of her neck and held on tightly as she reared again. "Enough, Saphira!" he bellowed. Her stream of thoughts ceased abruptly.

He ran a hand over her scales. "Everything's going to be all right." She crouched and her wings rushed upward. They hung there for an instant, then drove down as she flung herself into the sky. Eragon yelled as the ground dropped away and they rose above the trees. Turbulence buffeted him, snatching the breath out of his mouth. Saphira ignored his terror and banked toward the Spine. Underneath, he glimpsed the farm and the Anora River. His stomach convulsed. He tightened his arms around Saphira's neck and concentrated on the scales in front of his nose, trying not to vomit as she continued to climb. When she leveled off, he gained the courage to glance around. The air was so cold that frost accumulated on his eyelashes. They had reached the mountains faster than he thought possible. From the air, the peaks looked like giant razor sharp teeth waiting to slash them to ribbons. Saphira wobbled unexpectedly, and Eragon heaved over her side. He wiped his lips, tasting bile, and buried his head against her neck.

We have to go back! he strangers are coming to the farm. Garrow has to be warned. Turn around!

There was no answer. He reached for her mind, but was blocked by a barrier of roiling fear and anger. Determined to make her turn around, he grimly wormed into her mental armor. He pushed at its weak places, undermined the stronger sections, and fought to make her listen, but to no avail. Soon mountains surrounded them, forming tremendous white walls broken by granite cliffs. Blue glaciers sat between the summits like frozen rivers. Long valleys and ravines opened beneath them. He heard the dismayed screech of birds far below as Saphira soared into view.

He saw a herd of wooly goats bounding from ledge to ledge on a rocky bluff. Eragon was battered by swirling gusts from Saphira's wings, and whenever she moved her neck, he was tossed from side to side. She seemed tireless. He was afraid she was going to fly through the night. Finally, as darkness fell, she tilted into a shallow dive. He looked ahead and saw that they were headed for a small clearing in a valley, the very same in which her makeshift home resided. Saphira spiraled down, leisurely drifting over the treetops. She pulled back as the ground neared, filled her wings with air, and landed on her rear legs. Her powerful muscles rippled as they absorbed the shock of impact. She dropped to all fours and skipped a step to keep her balance. Eragon slid off without waiting for her to fold her wings. As he struck the ground, his knees buckled, and his cheek slammed against the snow. He gasped as excruciating pain seared through his legs, sending tears to his eyes. His muscles, cramped from clenching for so long, shook violently. He rolled onto his back, shivering, and stretched his limbs as best he could. Then he forced himself to look down.

Two large blots darkened his wool pants on the insides of his thighs. He touched the fabric. It was wet. Alarmed, he peeled off the pants and grimaced. The insides of his legs were raw and bloody. The skin was gone, rubbed off by Saphira's hard scales. He gingerly felt the abrasions and winced. Cold bit into him as he pulled the pants back on, and he cried out as they scraped against the sensitive wounds. He tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. The deepening night obscured his surroundings; the shaded mountains were unfamiliar.

I'm in the Spine, I don't know where, during the middle of winter, with a crazed dragon, unable to walk or find shelter. Night is falling. I have to get back to the farm tomorrow. And the only way to do that is to fly, which I can't endure anymore.

He took a deep breath. Oh, how I wish Saphira could breathe fire.

He turned his head and saw her next to him, crouched low to the ground. He put a hand on her side and found it trembling. The barrier in her mind was gone. Without it, her fear scorched through him. He clamped down on it and slowly soothed her with gentle images.

Why do the strangers frighten you so?

Murderers! she hissed.

Garrow is in danger and you kidnap me on this ridiculous journey! Are you unable to protect me?

She growled deeply and snapped her jaws.

Ah, but if you think you can, why run?

Death is a poison.

He leaned on one elbow and stifled his frustration. Saphira, look where we are! The sun is down, and your flight has stripped my legs as easily as I would scale a fish. Is that what you wanted?

She was silent for a while, refusing to so much as look at him.

No.

Then why did you do it? he demanded.

Through his link with Saphira, he felt her regret for his pain, but not for her actions. She looked away and refused to answer. The icy temperature deadened Eragon's legs; although it lessened the pain, he knew that his condition was not good.

Even with this to serve as shelter, I might still freeze. Eragon gestured to the shelter he had built for her.

Nay. I will curl around you and cover you with my wings—the fire inside me will stay the cold.

Eragon let his head thump back on the ground. Fine. I can't walk over there. You'll have to help me to it.

Her head, larger than his torso, swung over him and came to rest by his stared at her large, sapphire-colored eyes and wrapped his hands around one of her ivory spikes. She lifted her head and slowly dragged him to the shelter. The green egg gleamed slightly within it's depths.

Gently, gently.

He pulled his arms inside his coat and tied the empty sleeves around his neck. For the first time he noticed that hunger gnawed at his stomach. But it did not distract him from his main worry: Could he get back to the farm before the strangers did? And if not, what would happen?

Even if I can force myself to ride Saphira again, it'll be at least midafternoon before we get back. The strangers could be there long before that.

What have I done…?

When Eragon opened his eyes in the morning, he thought the sky had fallen. An unbroken plane of blue stretched over his head and slanted to the ground. Still half asleep, he reached out tentatively and felt a thin membrane under his fingers. It took him a long minute to realize what he was staring at. He bent his neck slightly and glared at the scaly haunch his head rested on. Slowly he pushed his legs out from his fetal curl, scabs cracking. The pain had subsided some from yesterday, but he shrank from the thought of walking. Burning hunger reminded him of his missed meals. He summoned the energy to move and pounded weakly on Saphira's side. "Hey! Wake up!" he yelled. She stirred and lifted her wing to admit a torrent of sunshine. He squinted as the snow momentarily blinded him. Beside him Saphira stretched like a cat and yawned, flashing rows of white teeth. When Eragon's eyes adjusted, he examined where they were. Imposing and unfamiliar mountains surrounded them, casting deep shadows on the clearing. Off to one side, he saw a trail cut through the snow and into the forest, where he could hear the muffled gurgling of a creek.

Groaning, he stood and swayed, then stiffly hobbled to a tree. He grabbed one of its branches and threw his weight against it. It held, then broke with a loud crack. He ripped off the twigs, fit one end of the branch under his arm, and planted the other firmly in the ground. With the help of his improvised crutch, he limped to the iced-over creek. He broke through the hard shell and cupped the clear, bitter water. Sated, he returned to the clearing. As he emerged from the trees, he finally recognized the mountains and the lay of the land.

This was where, amid deafening sound, Saphira's egg had first appeared. He sagged against a rough trunk. There could be no mistake, for now he saw the gray trees that had been stripped of their needles in the explosion.

How did Saphira know where this was? She was still in her egg. My memories must have given her enough information to find it.

Saphira was waiting patiently for him.

Will you take me home? he asked her.

She cocked her head.

I know you don't want to, but you must. Both of us carry an obligation to Garrow. He has cared for me and, through me, you. Would you ignore that debt? What will be said of us in years to come if we don't return—that we hid like cowards while my uncle was in danger? I can hear it now, the story of the Rider and his craven dragon! If there will be a fight, let's face it and not shy away. You are a dragon! Even a Shade would run from you! Yet you crouch in the mountains like a frightened rabbit.

Eragon meant to anger her, and he succeeded. A growl rippled in her throat as her head jabbed within a few inches of his face. She bared her fangs and glared at him, smoke trailing from her nostrils. He hoped that he had not gone too far.

Her thoughts reached him, red with will meet blood. I will fight. Our wyrds—our fates—bind us, but try me not. I will take you because of debt owed, but into foolishness we fly.

"Foolishness or not," he said into the air, "there is no choice—we must go." He ripped his shirt in half and stuffed a piece into each side of his pants. Gingerly, he hoisted himself onto Saphira and took a tight hold on her neck. This time, fly lower and faster. Time is of the essence.

Don't let go. she cautioned, then surged into the sky.

They rose above the forest and leveled out immediately, barely staying above the branches. Eragon's stomach lurched; he was glad it was empty.

Faster, faster! he urged. She said nothing, but the beat of her wings increased. He screwed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders. He had hoped that the extra padding of his shirt would protect him, but every movement sent pangs through his legs. Soon lines of hot blood trickled down his calves. Concern emanated from Saphira. She went even faster now, her wings straining. The land sped past, as if it were being pulled out from under them. Eragon imagined that to someone on the ground, they were just a blur.

By early afternoon, Palancar Valley lay before them. Clouds obscured his vision to the south; Carvahall was to the north. Saphira glided down while Eragon searched for the farm. When he spotted it, fear jolted him. A black plume with orange flames dancing at its base rose from the farm. Saphira! He pointed. Get me down there. Now!

She locked her wings and tilted into a steep dive, hurtling groundward at a frightening rate. Then she altered her dive slightly so they sped toward the forest. He yelled over the screaming air "Land in the fields!" He held on tighter as they plummeted. Saphira waited until they were only a hundred feet off the ground before driving her wings downward in several powerful strokes. She landed heavily, breaking his grip. He crashed to the ground, then staggered upright, gasping for breath.

The house had been blasted apart. Timbers and boards that had been walls and roof were strewn across a wide area. The wood was pulverized, as if a giant had smashed it. Soty shingles lay everywhere. A few twisted metal plates were all that remained of the stove. The snow was perforated with smashed white crockery and chunks of bricks from the chimney. Thick, oily smoke billowed from the barn, which burned fiercely. The farm animals were gone, either killed or frightened away.

"Uncle!" Eragon ran to the wreckage, hunting through the destroyed rooms for Garrow. There was no sign of him. "Uncle!" Eragon cried again. Saphira walked around the house and came to his side.

Sorrow breeds here. she said.

"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't run away with me!"

You would not be alive if we had stayed.

"Look at this!" he screamed. "We could've warned Garrow! It's your fault he didn't get away!" He slammed his fist against a pole, splitting the skin on his knuckles. Blood dripped down his fingers as he stalked out of the house. He stumbled to the path that led to the road and bent down to examine the snow. Several tracks were before him, but his vision was blurry and he could barely see.

Am I going blind? he wondered. With a shaking hand, he touched his cheeks and found them wet. A shadow fell on him as Saphira loomed overhead, sheltering him with her wings.

Take comfort; all may not be lost.

He looked up at her, searching for hope.

Examine the trail; my eyes see only two sets of prints. Garrow could not have been taken from here.

He focused on the trampled snow. The faint imprints of two pairs of leather boots headed toward the house. On top of those were traces of the same two sets of boots leaving. And whoever had made the departing tracks had been carrying the same weight as when they arrived.

You're right, Garrow has to be here! He leapt to his feet and hurried back to the house.

I will search around the buildings and in the forest. said Saphira.

Eragon scrambled into the remains of the kitchen and frantically started digging through a pile of rubble. Pieces of debris that he could not have moved normally now seemed to shift on their own accord. A cupboard, mostly intact, stymied him for a second, then he heaved and sent it flying. As he pulled on a board, something rattled behind him. He spun around, ready for an attack.

A hand extended from under a section of collapsed roof. It moved weakly, and he grasped it with a cry. "Uncle, can you hear me?" There was no response. Eragon tore at pieces of wood, heedless of the splinters that pierced his hands. He quickly exposed an arm and shoulder, but was barred by a heavy beam. He threw his shoulder at it and shoved with every fiber of his being, but it defied his efforts. "Saphira! I need you!"

She came immediately. Wood cracked under her feet as she crawled over the ruined walls. Without a word she nosed past him and set her side against the beam. Her claws sank into what was left of the floor; her muscles strained. With a grating sound, the beam lifted, and Eragon rushed under it. Garrow lay on his stomach, his clothes mostly torn off. Eragon pulled him out of the rubble. As soon as they were clear, Saphira released the beam, leaving it to crash to the floor.

Eragon dragged Garrow out of the destroyed house and eased him to the ground. Dismayed, he touched his uncle gently. His skin was gray, lifeless, and dry, as if a fever had burned off any sweat. His lip was split, and there was a long scrape on his cheekbone, but that was not the worst. Deep, ragged burns covered most of his body. They were chalky white and oozed clear liquid. A cloying, sickening smell hung over him—the odor of rotting fruit. His breath came in short jerks, each one sounding like a death rattle.

Murderers! hissed Saphira.

Don't say that. He can still be saved! We have to get him to Gertrude. I can't carry him to Carvahall, though.

Saphira presented an image of Garrow hanging under her while she flew.

Can you lift both of us?

If I must.

Eragon dug through the rubble until he found a board and leather thongs. He had Saphira pierce a hole with a claw at each of the board's corners, then he looped a piece of leather through each hole and tied them to her forelegs. After checking to make sure the knots were secure, he rolled Garrow onto the board and lashed him down. As he did, a scrap of black cloth fell from his uncle's hand. It matched the strangers' clothing. He angrily stuffed it in a pocket, mounted Saphira, and closed his eyes as his body settled into a steady throb of pain. Now!

She leapt up, hind legs digging into the ground. Her wings clawed at the air as she slowly climbed. Tendons strained and popped as she battled gravity. For a long, painful second, nothing happened, but then she lunged forward powerfully and they rose higher. Once they were over the forest, Eragon told her Follow the road. It'll give you enough room if you have to land.

I might be seen.

It doesn't matter anymore!

She argued no further as she veered to the road and headed for Carvahall. Garrow swung wildly underneath them; only the slender leather cords kept him from falling. The extra weight slowed Saphira. Before long her head sagged, and there was froth at her mouth. She struggled to continue, yet they were almost a league from Carvahall when she locked her wings and sank toward the road. Her hind feet touched with a shower of snow.

Eragon tumbled off her, landing heavily on his side to avoid hurting his legs. He struggled to his feet and worked to untie the leather from Saphira's legs. Her thick panting filled the air.

Find a safe place to rest. he said. I don't know how long I'll be gone, so you're going to have to take care of yourself for a while.

I will wait. she said.

He gritted his teeth and began to drag Garrow down the road. The first few steps sent an explosion of agony through him. "I can't do this!" he howled at the sky, then took a few more steps. His mouth locked into a snarl. He stared at the ground between his feet as he forced himself to hold a steady pace. It was a fight against his unruly body; a fight he refused to lose.

The minutes crawled by at an excruciating rate. Each yard he covered seemed many times that. With desperation he wondered if Carvahall still existed or if the strangers had burnt it down, too. After a time, through a haze of pain, he heard shouting and looked up. Brom was running toward him—eyes large, hair awry, and one side of his head caked with dried blood. He waved his arms wildly before dropping his staff and grabbing Eragon's shoulders, saying something in a loud voice. Eragon blinked uncomprehendingly. Without warning, the ground rushed up to meet him. He tasted blood, then blacked out.

Eragon was first aware of the creaking: back and forth, back and forth. The persistent sound made him open his eyes and stare at the underside of a thatched roof. A rough blanket was draped over him, concealing his nakedness. Someone had bandaged his legs and tied a clean rag around his knuckles. He was in a single-room hut. A mortar and pestle sat on a table with bowls and plants. Rows of dried herbs hung from the walls and suffused the air with strong, earthy aromas. Flames writhed inside a fireplace, before which sat a rotund woman in a wicker rocking chair—the town healer, Gertrude. Her head lolled, eyes closed. A pair of knitting needles and a ball of wool thread rested in her lap.

Though Eragon felt drained of willpower, he made himself sit up. That helped to clear his mind. He sifted through his memories of the last two days. His first thought was of Garrow, and his second was of Saphira. I hope she's in a safe place. Her and the egg.

He tried to contact her but could not. Wherever she was, it was far from Carvahall. At least Brom got me to Carvahall. I wonder what happened to him? There was all that blood.

Gertrude stirred and opened her sparkling eyes. "Oh," she said. "You're awake. Good!" Her voice was rich and warm. "How do you feel?"

"Well enough. Where's Garrow?"

Gertrude dragged the chair close to the bed. "Over at Horst's. There wasn't enough room to keep both of you here. And let me tell you, it's kept me on my toes, having to run back and forth, checking to see if the two of you were all right."

Eragon swallowed his worries and asked, "How is he?"

There was a long delay as she examined her hands. "Not good. He has a fever that refuses to break, and his injuries aren't healing."

"I have to see him." He tried to get up.

"Not until you eat," she said sharply, pushing him down. "I didn't spend all this time sitting by your side so you can get back up and hurt yourself. Half the skin on your legs was torn off, and your fever broke only last night. Don't worry yourself about Garrow. He'll be fine. He's a tough man." Gertrude hung a kettle over the fire, then began chopping parsnips for soup.

"How long have I been here?"

"Two full days." Two days! That meant his last meal had been four mornings ago! Just thinking about it made Eragon feel weak. Saphira's been on her own this entire time; I hope she's all right.

"The whole town wants to know what happened. They sent men down to your farm and found it destroyed." Eragon nodded; he had expected that. "Your barn was burned down. . . . Is that how Garrow was injured?"

"I… I don't know," said Eragon. "I wasn't there when it happened."

"Well, no matter. I'm sure it'll all get untangled." Gertrude resumed knitting while the soup cooked. "That's quite a scar on your palm."

He reflexively clenched his hand. "Yes."

"How did you get it?" Several possible answers came to mind. He chose the simplest one. "I've had it ever since I can remember. I never asked Garrow where it came from." "Mmm." The silence remained unbroken until the soup reached a rolling boil. Gertrude poured it in a bowl and handed it to Eragon with a spoon. He accepted it gratefully and took a cautious sip. It was delicious. When he finished, he asked, "Can I visit my uncle now?"

Gertrude sighed. "You're a determined one, aren't you? Well, if you really want to, I won't stop you. Put on your clothes and we'll go."

She turned her back as he struggled into his pants, wincing as they dragged over the bandages, and then slipped on his shirt. Gertrude helped him stand. His legs were weak, but they did not pain him like before. "Take a few steps," she commanded, then dryly observed, "At least you won't have to crawl there."

Outside, a blustery wind blew smoke from the adjacent buildings into their faces. Storm clouds hid the Spine and covered the valley while a curtain of snow advanced toward the village, obscuring the foothills. Eragon leaned heavily on Gertrude as they made their way through Carvahall.

Horst had built his two-story house on a hill so he could enjoy a view of the mountains. He had lavished all of his skill on it. The shale roof shadowed a railed balcony that extended from a tall window on the second floor. Each water spout was a snarling gargoyle, and every window and door was framed by carvings of serpents, hearts, ravens, and knotted vines. The door was opened by Elain, Horst's wife, a small, willowy woman with refined features and silky blond hair pinned into a bun. Her dress was demure and neat, and her movements graceful.

"Please, come in," she said softly. They stepped over the threshold into a large well-lit room. A staircase with a polished balustrade curved down to the floor. The walls were the color of honey. Elain gave Eragon a sad smile, but addressed Gertrude. "I was just about to send for you. He isn't doing well. You should see him right away."

"Elain, you'll have to help Eragon up the stairs," Gertrude said, then hurried up them two at a time.

"It's okay, I can do it myself."

"Are you sure?" asked Elain. He nodded, but she looked doubtful. "Well . . . as soon as you're done come visit me in the kitchen. I have a fresh-baked pie you might enjoy." As soon as she left, he sagged against the wall, welcoming the support. Then he started up the stairs, one painful step at a time. When he reached the top, he looked down a long hallway dotted with doors. The last one was open slightly. Taking a breath, he lurched toward it. Katrina stood by a fireplace, boiling rags. She looked up, murmured a condolence, and then returned to her work. Gertrude stood beside her, grinding herbs for a poultice. A bucket by her feet held snow melting into ice water.

Garrow lay on a bed piled high with blankets. Sweat covered his brow, and his eyeballs flickered blindly under their lids. The skin on his face was shrunken like a cadaver's. He was still, save for subtle tremors from his shallow breathing. Eragon touched his uncle's forehead with a feeling of unreality. It burned against his hand. He apprehensively lifted the edge of the blankets and saw that Garrow's many wounds were bound with strips of cloth. Where the bandages were being changed, the burns were exposed to the air. They had not begun to heal. Eragon looked at Gertrude with hopeless eyes.

"Can't you do anything about these?"

She pressed a rag into the bucket of ice water, then draped the cool cloth over Garrow's head. "I've tried everything: salves, poultices, tinctures, but nothing works. If the wounds closed, he would have a better chance. Still, things may turn for the better. He's hardy and strong."

Eragon moved to a corner and sank to the floor. This isn't the way things are supposed to be! Silence swallowed his thoughts. He stared blankly at the bed. After a while he noticed Katrina kneeling beside him. She put an arm around him. When he did not respond, she diffidently left.

Sometime later the door opened and Horst came in. He talked to Gertrude in a low voice, then approached Eragon. "Come on. You need to get out of here." Before Eragon could protest, Horst dragged him to his feet and shepherded him out the door.

"I want to stay," he complained.

"You need a break and fresh air. Don't worry, you can go back soon enough," consoled Horst.

Eragon grudgingly let the smith help him downstairs into the kitchen. Heady smells from half a dozen dishes—rich with spices and herbs—filled the air. Albriech and Baldor were there, talking with their mother as she kneaded bread. The brothers fell silent as they saw Eragon, but he had heard enough to know that they were discussing Garrow.

"Here, sit down," said Horst, offering a chair. Eragon sank into it gratefully.

"Thank you." His hands were shaking slightly, so he clasped them in his lap. A plate, piled high with food, was set before him.

"You don't have to eat," said Elain, "but it's there if you want." She returned to her cooking as he picked up a fork. He could barely swallow a few bites.

"How do you feel?" asked Horst.

"Terrible."

The smith waited a moment. "I know this isn't the best time, but we need to know- what happened?"

"I don't know."

"Eragon," said Horst, leaning forward, "I was one of the people who went out to your farm. Your house didn't just fall apart; something tore it to pieces. Surrounding it were tracks of a gigantic beast I've never seen nor heard of before. Others saw them too. Now, if there's a Shade or a monster roaming around, we have to know. You're the only one who can tell us."

Eragon knew he had to lie. "When I left Carvahall… ," he counted up the time, "four days ago, there were… strangers in town asking about a stone like the one I found." He gestured at Horst. "You talked to me about them, and because of that, I hurried home." All eyes were upon him. He licked his lips. "Nothing… nothing happened that night. The next morning I finished my chores and went walking in the forest. Before long I heard an explosion and saw smoke above the trees. I rushed back as fast as I could, but whoever did it was already gone. I dug through the wreckage and… found Garrow."

"So then you put him on the plank and dragged him back?" asked Albriech.

"Yes," said Eragon, "but before I left, I looked at the path to the road. There were two pairs of tracks on it, both of them men's." He dug in his pocket and pulled out the scrap of black fabric. "This was clenched in Garrow's hand. I think it matches what those strangers were wearing." He set it on the table.

"It does," said Horst. He looked both thoughtful and angry. "And what of your legs? How were they injured?"

"I'm not sure," said Eragon, shaking his head. "I think it happened when I dug Garrow out, but I don't know. It wasn't until the blood started dripping down my legs that I noticed it."

"That's horrible!" exclaimed Elain.

"We should pursue those men," stated Albriech hotly. "They can't get away with this! With a pair of horses we could catch them tomorrow and bring them back here."

"Put that foolishness out of your head," said Horst. "They could probably pick you up like a baby and throw you in a tree. Remember what happened to the house? We don't want to get in the way of those people. Besides, they have what they want now." He looked at Eragon. "They did take the stone, didn't they?"

"It wasn't in the house."

"Then there's no reason for them to return now that they have it." He gave Eragon a piercing look. "You didn't mention anything about those strange tracks. Do you know where they came from?"

Eragon shook his head. "I didn't see them."

Baldor abruptly spoke. "I don't like this. Too much of this rings of wizardry. Who are those men? Are they Shades? Why did they want the stone, and how could they have destroyed the house except with dark powers? You may be right, Father, the stone might be all they wanted, but I think we will see them again."

Silence followed his words. Something had been overlooked, though Eragon was not sure what. Then it struck him. With a sinking heart, he voiced his suspicion. "Roran doesn't know, does he?" How could I have forgotten him!?

Horst shook his head. "He and Dempton left a little while after you. Unless they ran into some difficulty on the road, they've been in Therinsford for a couple of days now. We were going to send a message, but the weather was too cold yesterday and the day before."

"Baldor and I were about to leave when you woke up," offered Albriech.

Horst ran a hand through his beard. "Go on, both of you. I'll help you saddle the horses."

Baldor turned to Eragon. "I'll break it to him gently," he promised, then followed Horst and Albriech out of the kitchen. Eragon remained at the table, his eyes focused on a knot in the wood. Every excruciating detail was clear to him: the twisting grain, an asymmetrical bump, three little ridges with a fleck of color. The knot was filled with endless detail; the closer he looked, the more he saw. He searched for answers in it, but if there were any, they eluded him.

A faint call broke through his pounding thoughts. It sounded like yelling from outside. He ignored it. Let someone else deal with it. Several minutes later he heard it again, louder than before. Angrily, he blocked it out. Why can't they be quiet? Garrow's resting. He glanced at Elaine, but she did not seem to be bothered by the noise.

ERAGON! The roar was so strong he almost fell out of the chair. He peered around in alarm, but nothing had changed. He suddenly realized that the shouts had been inside his head.

Saphira? he asked anxiously. There was a pause.

Yes, stone ears.

Relief seeped into him.

Where are you?

She sent him an image of a the small lean to he had fashioned. I tried to contact you many times, but you were beyond reach.

I was sick . . . but I'm better now. Why couldn't I sense you earlier?

After two nights of waiting, hunger bested me. I had to hunt.

Did you catch anything?

A young buck. He was wise enough to guard against the predators of land, but not those of sky. When I first caught him in my jaws, he kicked vigorously and tried to escape. I was stronger, though, and when defeat became unavoidable, he gave up and died. Does Garrow also fight the inevitable?

I don't know. He paused, taking the time to collect his thoughts. What of the egg?

Still as stone. Do not worry- I have kept it from the storm.

It'll be a long time, if ever, before we can go home. I won't be able to see you for at least a couple of days. You might as well make yourself comfortable.

Unhappy, she said I will do as you say. But do not take too long.

They parted reluctantly. He looked out a window and was surprised to see that the sun had set. Feeling very tired, he limped to Elain, who was wrapping meat pies with oilcloth.

"I'm going back to Gertrude's house to sleep," he said.

She finished with the packages and asked, "Why don't you stay with us? You'll be closer to your uncle, and Gertrude can have her bed back."

"Do you have enough room?" he asked, wavering. "Of course." She wiped her hands. "Come with me; I'll get everything ready." She escorted him upstairs to an empty room. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you need anything else?" she asked. He shook his head. "In that case, I'll be downstairs. Call me if you need help." He listened as she descended the stairs. Then he opened the door and slipped down the hallway to Garrow's room.

Gertrude gave him a small smile over her darting knitting needles. "How is he?" whispered Eragon.

Her voice rasped with fatigue. "He's weak, but the fever's gone down a little and some of the burns look better. We'll have to wait and see, but this could mean he'll recover." That lightened Eragon's mood, and he returned to his room. The darkness seemed unfriendly as he huddled under the blankets. Eventually he fell asleep, healing the wounds his body and soul had suffered.

It was dark when Eragon jolted upright in bed, breathing hard. The room was chilly; goose bumps formed on his arms and shoulders. It was a few hours before dawn—the time when nothing moves and life waits for the first warm touches of sunlight. His heart pounded as a terrible premonition gripped him. It felt like a shroud lay over the world, and its darkest corner was over his room. He quietly got out of bed and dressed. With apprehension he hurried down the hallway.

Alarm shot through him when he saw the door to Garrow's room open and people clustered inside. Garrow lay peacefully on the bed. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair had been combed back, and his face was calm. He might have been sleeping if not for the silver amulet clasped around his neck and the sprig of dried hemlock on his chest, the last gifts from the living to the dead. Katrina stood next to the bed, face pale and eyes downcast. He heard her whisper, "I had hoped to call him Father one day… "

Call him Father… Eragon thought bitterly. A right even I don't have. He felt like a ghost, drained of all vitality. Everything was insubstantial except for Garrow's face. Tears flooded Eragon's cheeks. He stood there, shoulders shaking, but did not cry out. Mother, aunt, uncle—he had lost them all. The weight of his grief was crushing, a monstrous force that left him tottering. Someone led him back to his room, uttering consolations. He fell on the bed, wrapped his arms around his head, and sobbed convulsively. He felt Saphira contact him, but he pushed her aside and let himself be swept away by sorrow. He could not accept that Garrow was gone. If he did, what was left to believe in? Only a merciless, uncaring world that snuffed lives like candles before a wind.

Frustrated and terrified, he turned his tear-dampened face toward the heavens and shouted, "What god would do this? Show yourself!" He heard people running to his room, but no answer came from above. "He didn't deserve this!" Comforting hands touched him, and he was aware of Elain sitting next to him. She held him as he cried, and eventually, exhausted, he slipped unwillingly into sleep.

Anguish enveloped Eragon as he awoke. Though he kept his eyes closed, they could not stop a fresh flow of tears. He searched for some idea or hope to help him keep his sanity. I can't live with this. he moaned.

Then don't. Saphira's words reverberated in his head.

How? Garrow is gone forever! And in time, I must meet the same fate. Love, family, accomplishments—they are all torn away, leaving nothing. What is the worth of anything we do?

The worth is in the act. Your worth halts when you surrender the will to change and experience life. But options are before you; choose one and dedicate yourself to it. The deeds will give you new hope and purpose.

But what can I do?

The only true guide is your heart. Nothing less than its supreme desire can help you. She left him to ponder her statements.

Eragon examined his emotions. It surprised him that, more than grief, he found a searing anger. What do you want me to do… pursue the strangers?

Yes.

Her frank answer confused him. He took a deep, trembling breath. Why?

Remember what you said in the Spine? How you reminded me of my duty as dragon, and I returned with you despite the urging of my instinct? So, too, must you control yourself. I thought long and deep the past few days, and I realized what it means to be dragon and Rider: It is our destiny to attempt the impossible, to accomplish great deeds regardless of fear. It is our responsibility to the future.

I don't care what you say; those aren't reasons to leave! cried Eragon.

Then here are others. My tracks have been seen, and people are alert to my presence. Eventually I will be exposed. Besides, there is nothing here for you. No farm, no family, and-

Roran's not dead! he said vehemently, cutting her off in doing so.

But if you stay, you'll have to explain what really happened. He has a right to know how and why his father died. What might he do once he knows of me?

Saphira's arguments whirled around in Eragon's head, but he shrank from the idea of forsaking Palancar Valley; it was his home. Yet the thought of enacting vengeance on the strangers was fiercely comforting.

Am I strong enough for this?

You have me.

Doubt besieged him. It would be such a wild, desperate thing to do. Contempt for his indecision rose, and a harsh smile danced on his lips. Saphira was right. Nothing mattered anymore except the act doing is the thing. And what would give him more satisfaction than hunting down the strangers? A terrible energy and strength began to grow in him. It grabbed his emotions and forged them into a solid bar of anger with one word stamped on it: revenge.

His head pounded as he said with conviction: I will do it.

He severed the contact with Saphira and rolled out of bed, his body tense like a coiled spring. It was still early morning; he had only slept a few hours. Nothing is more dangerous than an enemy with nothing to lose. he thought. Which is what I have become.

Yesterday he had had difficulty walking upright, but now he moved confidently, held in place by his iron will. The pain his body sent him was defied and ignored. As he crept out of the house, he heard the murmur of two people talking. Curious, he stopped and listened. Elain was saying in her gentle voice, "... place to stay. We have room." Horst answered inaudibly in his bass rumble.

"Yes, the poor boy," replied Elain. This time Eragon could hear Horst's response. "Maybe… " There was a long pause. "I've been thinking about what Eragon said, and I'm not sure he told us everything."

"What do you mean?" asked Elain. There was concern in her voice.

"When we started for their farm, the road was scraped smooth by the board he dragged Garrow on. Then we reached a place where the snow was all trampled and churned up. His footprints and signs of the board stopped there, but we also saw the same giant tracks from the farm. And what about his legs? I can't believe he didn't notice losing that much skin. I didn't want to push him for answers earlier, but now I think I will."

"Maybe what he saw scared him so much that he doesn't want to talk about it," suggested Elain. "You saw how distraught he was."

"That still doesn't explain how he managed to get Garrow nearly all the way here without leaving any tracks."

Saphira was right; It's time to leave. Too many questions from too many people. Sooner or later they'll find the answers. He continued through the house, tensing whenever the floor creaked. The streets were clear; few people were up at this time of day. He stopped for a minute and forced himself to focus.

I don't need a horse. Saphira will be my steed, but she needs a saddle. She can hunt for both of us, so I don't have to worry about food—though I should get some anyway. Whatever else I need I can find buried in our house.

He went to Gedric's tanning vats on the outskirts of Carvahall. The vile smell made him cringe, but he kept moving, heading for a shack set into the side of a hill where the cured hides were stored. He cut down three large ox hides from the rows of skins hanging from the ceiling. The thievery made him feel guilty, but he reasoned It's not really stealing. I'll pay Gedric back someday, along with Horst.

He rolled up the thick leather and took it to a stand of trees away from the village. He wedged the hides between the branches of a tree, then returned to Carvahall. Now for food. He went to the tavern, intending to get it there, but then smiled tightly and reversed direction. If he was going to steal, it might as well be from Sloan. He sneaked up to the butcher's house. The front door was barred whenever Sloan was not there, but the side door was secured with only a thin chain, which he broke easily. The rooms inside were dark. He fumbled blindly until his hands came upon hard piles of meat wrapped in cloth. He stuffed as many of them as he could under his shirt, then hurried back to the street and furtively closed the door.

A woman shouted his name nearby. He clasped the bottom of his shirt to keep the meat from falling out and ducked behind a corner. He shivered as Horst walked between two houses not ten feet away. Eragon ran as soon as Horst was out of sight. His legs burned as he pounded down an alley and back to the trees. He slipped between the tree trunks, then turned to see if he was being pursued. No one was there. Relieved, he let out his breath and reached into the tree for the leather. It was gone.

"Going somewhere?" Eragon whirled around. Brom scowled angrily at him, an ugly wound on the side of his head. A short sword hung at his belt in a brown sheath. The hides were in his hands. Eragon's eyes narrowed in irritation. How had the old man managed to sneak up on him? Everything had been so quiet, he would have sworn that no one was around.

"Give them back," he snapped.

"Why? So you can run off before Garrow is even buried?" The accusation was sharp.

"It's none of your business!" he barked, temper flashing. "Why did you follow me?"

"I didn't," grunted Brom. "I've been waiting for you here. Now where are you going?"

"Nowhere." Eragon lunged for the skins and grabbed them from Brom's hands. Brom did nothing to stop him. "I hope you have enough meat to feed your dragon."

Eragon froze. "What are you talking about?"

Brom crossed his arms. "Don't fool with me. I know where that mark on your hand, the gedwëy ignasia, the shining palm, comes from: you have touched a dragon hatchling. I know why you came to me with those questions, and I know that once more the Riders live."

Eragon dropped the leather and meat. It's finally happened… I have to get away! I can't run faster than him with my injured legs, but if… Saphira! he called.

For a few agonizing seconds she did not answer, but then Yes?

We've been discovered! I need you!

He sent her a picture of where he was, and she took off immediately. Now he just had to stall Brom. "How did you find out?" he asked in a hollow voice.

Brom stared into the distance and moved his lips soundlessly as if he were talking to someone else. Then he said, "There were clues and hints everywhere; I had only to pay attention. Anyone with the right knowledge could have done the same. Tell me, how is your dragon?"

"She," said Eragon, "is fine. We weren't at the farm when the strangers came." "Ah, your legs. You were flying?"

How did Brom figure that out? What if the strangers coerced him into doing this? Maybe they want him to discover where I'm going so they can ambush us. And where is Saphira? He reached out with his mind and found her circling far overhead. Come!

No, I will watch for a time.

Why!?

Because of the slaughter at Dorú Areaba.

What?

Brom leaned against a tree with a slight smile. "I have talked with her, and she has agreed to stay above us until we settle our differences. As you can see, you really don't have any choice but to answer my questions. Now tell me, where are you going?"

Bewildered, Eragon put a hand to his could Brom speak to Saphira? The back of his head throbbed and ideas whirled through his mind, but he kept reaching the same conclusion: he had to tell the old man something.

He said, "I was going to find a safe place to stay while I heal."

"And after that?" The question could not be ignored. The throbbing in his head grew worse. It was impossible to think; nothing seemed clear anymore. All he wanted to do was tell someone about the events of the past few months. It tore at him that his secret had caused Garrow's death.

He gave up and said tremulously, "I was going to hunt down the strangers and kill them."

"A mighty task for one so young," Brom said in a normal tone, as if Eragon had proposed the most obvious and suitable thing to do. "Certainly a worthy endeavor and one you are fit to carry out, yet it strikes me that help would not be unwelcome." He reached behind a bush and pulled out a large pack. His tone became gruff. "Anyway, I'm not going to stay behind while some stripling gets to run around with a dragon."

Is he really offering help, or is it a trap? Eragon was afraid of what his mysterious enemies could do. But Brom convinced Saphira to trust him, and they've talked through the mind touch. If she isn't worried… He decided to put his suspicions aside for the present.

"I don't need help," said Eragon, then grudgingly added, "but you can come."

"Then we had best be going," said Brom. His face blanked for a moment. "I think you'll find that your dragon will listen to you again."

Saphira? asked Eragon.

Yes.

He resisted the urge to question her.

Will you meet us at the farm?

Yes. So you reached an agreement?

I guess so.

She broke contact and soared away. He glanced at Carvahall and saw people running from house to house. "I think they're looking for me."

Brom raised an eyebrow. "Probably. Shall we go?"

Eragon hesitated. "I'd like to leave a message for Roran. It doesn't seem right to run off without telling him why."

"It's been taken care of," assured Brom. "I left a letter for him with Gertrude, explaining a few things. I also cautioned him to be on guard for certain dangers. Is that satisfactory?"

Eragon nodded. He wrapped the leather around the meat and started off. They were careful to stay out of sight until they reached the road, then quickened their pace, eager to distance themselves from Carvahall. Eragon plowed ahead determinedly, his legs burning. The mindless rhythm of walking freed his mind to think. Once we get home, I won't travel any farther with Brom until I get some answers. he told himself firmly. I hope that he can tell me more about the Riders and whom I'm fighting.

As the wreckage of the farm came into view, Brom's eyebrows beetled with anger. Eragon was dismayed to see how swiftly nature was reclaiming the farm. Snow and dirt were already piled inside the house, concealing the violence of the strangers' attack. All that remained of the barn was a rapidly eroding rectangle of soot.
Brom's head snapped up as the sound of Saphira's wings drifted over the trees. She dived past them from behind, almost brushing their heads. They staggered as a wall of air buffeted them. Saphira's scales glittered as she wheeled over the farm and landed gracefully. Brom stepped forward with an expression both solemn and joyous. His eyes were shining, and a tear shone on his cheek before it disappeared into his beard. He stood there for a long while, breathing heavily as he watched Saphira, and she him.

Eragon heard him muttering and edged closer to listen. "So… it starts again. But how and where will it end? My sight is veiled; I cannot tell if this be tragedy or farce, for the elements of both are here… However it may be, my station is unchanged, and I-"

Whatever else he might have said faded away as Saphira proudly approached them. Eragon passed Brom, pretended he had heard nothing, and greeted her. There was something different between them now, as if they knew each other even more intimately, yet were still strangers. He rubbed her neck, and his palm tingled as their minds touched. A strong curiosity came from her.

I've seen no humans except you and Garrow, and he was badly injured. she said. You've viewed people through my eyes.

It's not the same. She came closer and turned her long head so that she could inspect Brom with one large blue eye. You really are queer creatures. She said critically, and continued to stare at him. Brom held still as she sniffed the air, and then he extended a hand to her. Saphira slowly bowed her head and allowed him to touch her on the brow. With a snort, she jerked back and retreated behind Eragon. Her tail flicked over the ground.

What is it? he asked. She did not answer.

Brom turned to him and asked in an undertone, "What's her name?"

"Saphira."

A peculiar expression crossed Brom's face. He ground the butt of his staff into the earth with such force his knuckles turned white.

"Of all the names you gave me, it was the only one she liked. I think it fits," Eragon added quickly.

"Fit it does," said Brom. There was something in his voice Eragon could not identify. Was it loss, wonder, fear, envy? He was not sure; it could have been none of them or all.

Brom raised his voice and said, "Greetings, Saphira. I am honored to meet you." He twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed.

I like him said Saphira quietly.

Of course you do; everyone enjoys flattery. Eragon touched her on the shoulder and went to the ruined house. Saphira trailed behind with Brom. The old man looked vibrant and alive. Eragon climbed into the house and crawled under a door into what was left of his room. He barely recognized it under the piles of shattered wood. Guided by memory, he searched where the inside wall had been and found his empty pack. Part of the frame was broken, but the damage could be easily repaired. He kept rummaging and eventually uncovered the end of his bow, which was still in its buckskin tube. Though the leather was scratched and scuffed, he was pleased to see that the oiled wood was , some luck.

He strung the bow and pulled on the sinew experimentally. It bent smoothly, without any snaps or creaks. Satisfied, he hunted for his quiver, which he found buried nearby. Many of the arrows were broken. He unstrung the bow and handed it and the quiver to Brom, who said, "It takes a strong arm to pull that."

Eragon took the compliment silently. He picked through the rest of the house for other useful items and dumped the collection next to Brom. It was a meager pile.

"What now?" asked Brom. His eyes were sharp and inquisitive. Eragon looked away. "We find a place to hide."

"Do you have somewhere in mind?"

"Yes." He wrapped all the supplies, except for his bow, into a tight bundle and tied it shut.

Hefting it onto his back, he said, "This way," and headed into the forest.

Saphira, follow us in the air. Your footprints are too easily found and tracked.

Very well. She took off behind them.

Their destination was nearby, but Eragon took a circuitous route in an effort to baffle any pursuers. It was well over an hour before he finally stopped in a well-concealed bramble. The small hut he Eragon had made sat in the middle of the clearing, and gray trees hid them from view. Brom extricated himself from a vine and looked around with interest. "Does anyone else know of this?" he asked.

"No. I found it when we first moved here. It took me a week to dig into the center, and another week to clear out all the deadwood." Saphira landed beside them and folded her wings, careful to avoid the thorns. She curled up, snapping twigs with her hard scales, and rested her head on the ground. Her unreadable eyes followed them closely. Brom leaned against his staff and fixed his gaze on her. His scrutiny made Eragon nervous. Eragon watched them until hunger forced him to action. He built a fire, filled a pot with snow, and then set it over the flames to melt. When the water was hot, he tore off chunks of meat and dropped them into the pot with a lump of salt. Not much of a meal, he thought grimly but it'll do. I'll probably be eating this for some time to come, so I might as well get used to it.

The stew simmered quietly, spreading a rich aroma through the clearing. The tip of Saphira's tongue snaked out and tasted the air. When the meat was tender, Brom came over and Eragon served the food. They ate silently, avoiding each other's eyes. Afterward, Brom pulled out his pipe and lit it leisurely.

"Why do you want to travel with me?" asked Eragon.

A cloud of smoke left Brom's lips and spiraled up through the trees until it disappeared. "I have a vested interest in keeping you alive," he said.

"What do you mean?" demanded Eragon. "To put it bluntly, I'm a storyteller and I happen to think that you will make a fine story. You're the first Rider to exist outside of the king's control for over a hundred years. What will happen? Will you perish as a martyr? Will you join the Varden? Or will you kill King Galbatorix? All fascinating questions. And I will be there to see every bit of it, no matter what I have to do."

A knot formed in Eragon's stomach. He could not see himself doing any of those things, least of all becoming a martyr. I want my vengeance, but for the rest… I have no ambition. "That may be, but tell me, how can you talk with Saphira?"

Brom took his time putting more tobacco in his pipe. Once it was relit and firmly in his mouth, he said, "Very well, if it's answers you want, it's answers you'll get, but they may not be to your liking." He got up, brought his pack over to the fire, and pulled out two long objects wrapped in cloth. Each was four to five feet long and, from the way he handled them, rather heavy.

He peeled away the cloth, strip by strip, like a mummy being unswathed. Eragon gazed, transfixed, as a pair of swords were revealed.

The first, slightly shorter than the other, had a slightly curved cross guard of blue steel. The hilt was longer than that of the second blade. The grip was made from a silvery material that contrasted the blue of the cross guard. Lastly, there was a large blue sapphire in the pommel held in place by four ribs, which looked like claws, made from a strange blue metal. It's sheath was a deep blue the likes of which Eragon had never seen.

The second sword was every bit as impressive as the first. It's gold pommel was teardrop shaped with the sides cut away to reveal a ruby the size of a small egg. The hilt was wrapped in silver wire, burnished until it gleamed like starlight. The sheath was wine red and smooth as glass, adorned solely by a strange black symbol etched into it. Next to the swords was a leather belt with a heavy buckle.

"These were once a Rider's blades," said Brom gravely. "When a Rider finished his training, the elves would present him with a sword. Their methods of forging have always remained secret. However, their swords are eternally sharp and will never stain. The custom was to have the blade's color match that of the Rider's dragon, and as such I believe it would be best for you to try the feel of this one."

Brom passed the weapon to Eragon. The handle fit Eragon's hand as if it had been made for him. He slowly drew the sword; it slid soundlessly from the sheath. The flat blade was every shade of blue and shimmered in the firelight. The keen edges curved gracefully to a sharp point. A black symbol was inscribed on the metal.

The balance of the sword was perfect; it felt like an extension of his arm, unlike the rude farm tools he was used to. An air of power lay over it, as if an unstoppable force resided in its core. It had been created for the violent convulsions of battle, to end men's lives, yet it held a terrible beauty.

Brom stirred as Eragon beheld the blade, and his eyes shown with an emotion that Eragon could not place ."This sword is named Undbitr. I don't know what it means, probably something personal to the Rider who owned it." He watched Eragon swing the sword.

"Where did you get them?" asked Eragon. He reluctantly slipped the blue blade back into the sheath and attempted to hand the sword back, but Brom made no move to take it. "It doesn't matter," said Brom. "I will only say that it took me a series of nasty and dangerous adventures to attain it. Consider it yours. You have more of a claim to it than I do, and before all is done, I think you will need it."

The offer caught Eragon off guard. "It is a princely gift, thank you." Unsure of what else to say, he slid his hand down the sheath. "What is this symbol?" he asked.

"That was the Rider's personal crest." Eragon tried to interrupt, but Brom glared at him until he was quiet. "Now, if you must know, anyone can learn how to speak to a dragon if they have the proper training. And," he raised a finger for emphasis, "it doesn't mean anything if they can. I know more about the dragons and their abilities than almost anyone else alive. On your own it might take years to learn what I can teach you. I'm offering my knowledge as a shortcut. As for how I know so much, I will keep that to myself."

Saphira pulled herself up as he finished speaking and prowled over to Eragon. He pulled out the blade and showed her the sword.

It has power she said, touching the point with her nose. The metal's iridescent color rippled like water as it met her scales. She lifted her head with a satisfied snort, and the sword resumed its normal appearance. Eragon sheathed it, troubled.

Brom raised an eyebrow. "That's the sort of thing I'm talking about. Dragons will constantly amaze you. Things… happen around them, mysterious things that are impossible anywhere else. Even though the Riders worked with dragons for centuries, they never completely understood their abilities. Some say that even the dragons don't know the full extent of their own powers. They are linked with this land in a way that lets them overcome great obstacles. What Saphira just did illustrates my earlier point: there is much you don't know." There was a long pause.

"That may be," said Eragon, "but I can learn. And the strangers are the most important thing I need to know about right now. Do you have any idea who they are?"

Brom took a deep breath. "They are called the Ra'zac. No one knows if that's the name of their race or what they have chosen to call themselves. Either way, if they have individual names, they keep them hidden. The Ra'zac were never seen before Galbatorix came to power. He must have found them during his travels and enlisted them in his service. Little or nothing is known about them. However, I can tell you this: they aren't human. When I glimpsed one's head, it appeared to have something resembling a beak and black eyes as large as my fist—though how they manage our speech is a mystery to me. Doubtless the rest of their bodies are just as twisted. That is why they cover themselves with cloaks at all times, regardless of the weather. "

"As for their powers, they are stronger than any man and can jump incredible heights, but they cannot use magic. Be thankful for that, because if they could, you would already be in their grasp. I also know they have a strong aversion to sunlight, though it won't stop them if they're determined. Don't make the mistake of underestimating a Ra'zac, for they are cunning and full of guile."

"How many of them are there?" asked Eragon, wondering how Brom could possibly know so much.

"As far as I know, only the two you saw. There might be more, but I've never heard of them. Perhaps they're the last of a dying race. You see, they are the king's personal dragon hunters. Whenever rumors reach Galbatorix of a dragon in the land, he sends the Ra'zac to investigate. A trail of death often follows them." Brom blew a series of smoke rings and watched them float up between the brambles. Eragon ignored the rings until he noticed that they were changing color and darting around.

Brom winked slyly.

Eragon was sure that no one had seen Saphira, so how could Galbatorix have heard about her? When he voiced his objections, Brom said, "You're right, it seems unlikely that anyone from Carvahall could have informed the king. Why don't you tell me where you got the egg and how you raised Saphira—that might clarify the issue." Eragon hesitated, nervous. It did not feel right to reveal the other egg. Should we?

Saphira appeared to think about it before nodding subtly. If he is to help us he will find out eventually.

So Eragon recounted all the events since he had found the eggs in the Spine. It felt wonderful to finally confide in someone. Brom asked a few questions, but most of the time he listened intently. The sun was about to set when Eragon finished his tale.

"The other… you are sure it is also an egg?" Brom asked, his brows joining together above his eyes.

Eragon nodded. "They were the same for the difference in color."

"And where is this egg now?"

Eragon gestured to the wood hut.

Brom cocked his head. "You've made many things clear to me. I am sure that no one besides us has seen Saphira or the green egg. The Ra'zac must have had a source of information outside of this valley, one who is probably dead by now… You have had a hard time and done much. I'm impressed."

Eragon stared blankly into the distance, then asked, "What happened to your head? It looks like you were hit with a rock."

"No, but that's a good guess." He took a deep pull on the pipe. "I was sneaking around the Ra'zac's camp after dark, trying to learn what I could, when they surprised me in the shadows. It was a good trap, but they underestimated me, and I managed to drive them away. Not, however," he said wryly, "without this token of my stupidity. Stunned, I fell to the ground and didn't regain consciousness until the next day. By then they had already arrived at your farm. It was too late to stop them, but I set out after them anyway. That's when we met on the road."

Who is he to think that he could take on the Ra'zac alone? They ambushed him in the dark, and he was only stunned? Unsettled, Eragon asked hotly, "When you saw the mark, the gedwëy ignasia, on my palm, why didn't you tell me who the Ra'zac were? I would have warned Garrow instead of going to Saphira first, and the three of us could have fled."

Brom sighed. "I was unsure of what to do at the time. I thought I could keep the Ra'zac away from you and, once they had left, confront you about Saphira. But they outsmarted me. It's a mistake that I deeply regret, and one that has cost you dearly."

"Who are you?" demanded Eragon, suddenly bitter. "How come a mere village storyteller happens to have two Riders' swords? How do you know about the Ra'zac?"

Brom tapped his pipe. "I thought I made it clear I wasn't going to talk about that."

"My uncle is dead because of this! Dead! " exclaimed Eragon, slashing a hand through the air. "I've trusted you this far because Saphira respects you, but no more! You're not the person I've known in Carvahall for all of these years. Explain yourself!"

For a long time Brom stared at the smoke swirling between them, deep lines creasing his forehead. When he stirred, it was only to take another puff. Finally he said, "You've probably never thought about it, but most of my life has been spent outside of Palancar Valley. It was only in Carvahall that I took up the mantle of storyteller. I have played many roles to different people—I've a complicated past. It was partly through a desire to escape it that I came here. So no, I'm not the man you think I am."

"Ha!" snorted Eragon. "Then who are you?"

Brom smiled gently. "I am one who is here to help you. Do not scorn those words- they are the truest I've ever spoken. But I'm not going to answer your questions. At this point you don't need to hear my history, nor have you yet earned that right. Yes, I have knowledge Brom the storyteller wouldn't, but I'm more than he. You'll have to learn to live with that fact and the fact that I don't hand out descriptions of my life to anyone who asks!"

Eragon glared at him sullenly. "I'm going to sleep," he said, leaving the fire. Brom did not seem surprised, but there was sorrow in his eyes. He spread his bedroll next to the fire as Eragon joined Saphira within her small wooden home. An icy silence fell over the camp.

When Eragon's eyes opened, the memory of Garrow's death crashed down on him. He pulled the blankets over his head and cried quietly under their warm darkness. It felt good just to lie there . . . to hide from the world outside. Eventually the tears stopped. He cursed Brom. Then he reluctantly wiped his cheeks and got up. Brom was making breakfast.

"Good morning," he said. Eragon grunted in reply. He jammed his cold fingers in his armpits and crouched by the fire until the food was ready. They ate quickly, trying to consume the food before it lost its warmth. When he finished, Eragon washed his bowl with snow, then spread the stolen leather on the ground.

"What are you going to do with that?" asked Brom. "We can't carry it with us." "I'm going to make a saddle for Saphira."

"Mmm," said Brom, moving forward. "Well, dragons used to have two kinds of saddles. The first was hard and molded like a horse's saddle. But those take time and tools to make, neither of which we have. The other was thin and lightly padded, nothing more than an extra layer between the Rider and dragon. Those saddles were used whenever speed and flexibility were important, though they weren't nearly as comfortable as the molded ones."

"Do you know what they looked like?" asked Eragon.

"Better, I can make one."

"Then please do," said Eragon, standing aside.

"Very well, but pay attention. Someday you may have to do this for yourself."

With Saphira's permission, Brom measured her neck and chest. Then he cut five bands out of the leather and outlined a dozen or so shapes on the hides. Once the pieces had been sliced out, he cut what remained of the hides into long cords. Brom used the cords to sew everything together, but for each stitch, two holes had to be bored through the leather. Eragon helped with that. Intricate knots were rigged in place of buckles, and every strap was made extra long so the saddle would still fit Saphira in the coming months. The main part of the saddle was assembled from three identical sections sewn together with padding between them. Attached to the front was a thick loop that would fit snugly around one of Saphira's neck spikes, while wide bands sewn on either side would wrap around her belly and tie underneath. Taking the place of stirrups were a series of loops running down both bands. Tightened, they would hold Eragon's legs in place. A long strap was constructed to pass between Saphira's front legs, split in two, and then come up behind her front legs to rejoin with the saddle. While Brom worked, Eragon repaired his pack and organized their supplies.

The day was spent by the time their tasks were completed. Weary from his labor, Brom put the saddle on Saphira and checked to see that the straps fit. He made a few small adjustments, then took it off, satisfied.

"You did a good job," Eragon acknowledged grudgingly. Brom inclined his head. "One tries his best. It should serve you well; the leather's sturdy enough."

Aren't you going to try it out? asked Saphira.

Maybe tomorrow. said Eragon, storing the saddle with his blankets. It's too late now.

In truth he was not eager to fly again—not after the disastrous outcome of his last attempt. Dinner was made quickly. It tasted good even though it was simple.

While they ate, Brom looked over the fire at Eragon and asked, "Will we leave tomorrow?"

"There isn't any reason to stay."

"I suppose not. . . ." He shifted. "Eragon, I must apologize about how events have turned out. I never wished for this to happen. Your family did not deserve such a tragedy. If there were anything I could do to reverse it, I would. This is a terrible situation for all of us."

Eragon sat in silence, avoiding Brom's gaze, then Brom said, "We're going to need horses."

"Maybe you do, but I have Saphira."

Brom shook his head. "There isn't a horse alive that can outrun a flying dragon, and Saphira is too young to carry us both. Besides, it'll be safer if we stay together, and riding is faster than walking."

"But that'll make it harder to catch the Ra'zac," protested Eragon. "On Saphira, I could probably find them within a day or two. On horses, it'll take much longer-if it's even possible to overtake their lead on the ground!"

Brom said slowly, "That's a chance you'll have to take if I'm to accompany you."

Eragon thought it over. "All right," he grumbled, "we'll get horses. But you have to buy them. I don't have any money, and I don't want to steal again. It's wrong."

"That depends on your point of view," corrected Brom with a slight smile. "Before you set out on this venture, remember that your enemies, the Ra'zac, are the king's servants. They will be protected wherever they go. Laws do not stop them. In cities they'll have access to abundant resources and willing servants. Also keep in mind that nothing is more important to Galbatorix than recruiting or killing you- though word of your existence probably hasn't reached him yet. The longer you evade the Ra'zac, the more desperate he'll become. He'll know that every day you'll be growing stronger and that each passing moment will give you another chance to join his enemies. You must be very careful, as you may easily turn from the hunter into the hunted."

Eragon was subdued by the strong words. Pensive, he rolled a twig between his fingers.

"Enough talk," said Brom. "It's late and my bones ache. We can say more tomorrow." Eragon nodded and banked the fire.

Dawn was gray and overcast with a cutting wind. The forest was quiet. After a light breakfast, Brom and Eragon doused the fire and shouldered their packs, preparing to leave. Eragon hung his bow and quiver on the side of his pack where he could easily reach them. Saphira wore the saddle; she would have to carry it until they got horses. At her direction, Eragon carefully stored the verdant egg in a small saddle bag that Brom had fashioned out of one of the three hides Eragon had taken.

Eragon carefully tied Undbitr onto her back, too, as he did not want the extra weight. Besides, in his hands the sword would be no better than a club.

Eragon had felt safe inside the bramble, but outside, wariness crept into his movements. Saphira took off and circled overhead. The trees thinned as they returned to the farm.

I will see this place again. Eragon insisted to himself, looking at the ruined buildings. This cannot, will not, be a permanent exile. Someday when it's safe, I'll return.

Throwing back his shoulders, he faced south and the strange, barbaric lands that lay there. As they walked, Saphira veered west toward the mountains and out of sight.

Eragon felt uncomfortable as he watched her go. Even now, with no one around, they could not spend their days together. She had to stay hidden in case they met a fellow traveler. The Ra'zac's footprints were faint on the eroding snow, but Eragon was unconcerned. It was unlikely that they had forsaken the road, which was the easiest way out of the valley, for the wilderness. Once outside the valley, however, the road divided in several places. It would be difficult to ascertain which branch the Ra'zac had taken.

They traveled in silence, concentrating on speed. Eragon's legs continued to bleed where the scabs had cracked.

To take his mind off the discomfort, he asked, "So what exactly can dragons do? You said that you knew something of their abilities."

Brom laughed, his sapphire ring flashing in the air as he gestured. "Unfortunately, it's a pitiful amount compared to what I would like to know. Your question is one people have been trying to answer for centuries, so understand that what I tell you is by its very nature incomplete. Dragons have always been mysterious, though maybe not on purpose. "

"Before I can truly answer your question, you need a basic education on the subject of dragons. It's hopelessly confusing to start in the middle of such a complex topic without understanding the foundation on which it stands. I'll begin with the life cycle of dragons, and if that doesn't wear you out, we can continue to another topic."

Brom explained how dragons mate and what it took for their eggs to hatch. "You see," he said, "when a dragon lays an egg, the infant inside is ready to hatch. But it waits, sometimes for years, for the right circumstances. When dragons lived in the wild, those circumstances were usually dictated by the availability of food. However, once they formed an alliance with the elves, a certain number of their eggs, usually no more than one or two, were given to the Riders each year. These eggs, or rather the infants inside, wouldn't hatch until the person destined to be its Rider came into their presence; though how they sensed that isn't known. People used to line up to touch the eggs, hoping that one of them might be picked."

"Do you mean that Saphira might not have hatched for me?" asked Eragon.

"Quite possibly, if she hadn't liked you."

He felt honored that of all the people in Alagaësia, she had chosen him. He wondered how long she had been waiting, then shuddered at the thought of being cramped inside an egg, surrounded by darkness.

Brom continued his lecture. He explained what and when dragons ate. A fully grown sedentary dragon could go for months without food, but in mating season they had to eat every week. Some plants could heal their sicknesses, while others would make them ill. There were various ways to care for their claws and clean their scales. He explained the techniques to use when attacking from a dragon and what to do if you were fighting one, whether on foot, horseback, or with another dragon. Their bellies were armored; their armpits were not.

Eragon constantly interrupted to ask questions, and Brom seemed pleased by the inquiries. Hours passed unheeded as they talked. When evening came, they were near Therinsford. As the sky darkened and they searched for a place to camp, Eragon asked, "Who was the Rider that owned Undbitr?"

Brom smiled slightly, though his eyes again shone with a curious light.

"A clever man." said Brom, "One who fought bitterly until the end."

"And Zar'roc?" Eragon asked, gesturing at the wine red sheath that lay upon the old man's belt.

The lines in Brom's face deepened ever so slightly.

"A mighty warrior"

"What was his name?"

"I'll not say." Eragon protested, but Brom was firm. "I don't want to keep you ignorant, far from it, but certain knowledge would only prove dangerous and distracting for you right now. There isn't any reason for me to trouble you with such things until you have the time and the power to deal with them. I only wish to protect you from those who would use you for evil."

Eragon glared at him. "You know what? I think you just enjoy speaking in riddles. I've half a mind to leave you so I don't have to be bothered with them. If you're going to say something, then say it instead of dancing around with vague phrases!"

"Peace. All will be told in time," Brom said gently. Eragon grunted, unconvinced. They found a comfortable place to spend the night and set up camp. Saphira joined them as dinner was being set on the fire.

Did you have time to hunt for food? asked Eragon.

She snorted with amusement. If the two of you were any slower, I would have time to fly across the sea and back without falling behind.

You don't have to be insulting. Besides, we'll go faster once we have horses.

She let out a puff of smoke. Maybe, but will it be enough to catch the Ra'zac? They have a lead of several days and many leagues. And I'm afraid they may suspect we're following them. Why else would they have destroyed the farm in such a spectacular manner, unless they wished to provoke you into chasing them?

I don't know. said Eragon, disturbed.

Saphira curled up beside him, and he leaned against her belly, welcoming the warmth. Brom sat on the other side of the fire, whittling two long sticks. He suddenly threw one at Eragon, who grabbed it out of reflex as it whirled over the crackling flames.

"Defend yourself!" barked Brom, standing. Eragon looked at the stick in his hand and saw that it was shaped in the crude likeness of a sword.

Brom wanted to fight him? What chance did the old man stand?

If he wants to play this game, so be it, but if he thinks to beat me, he's in for a surprise.

He rose as Brom circled the fire. They faced each other for a moment, then Brom charged, swinging his stick. Eragon tried to block the attack but was too slow. He yelped as Brom struck him on the ribs, and stumbled backward.

Without thinking, he lunged forward, but Brom easily parried the blow. Eragon whipped the stick toward Brom's head, twisted it at the last moment, and then tried to hit his side. The solid smack of wood striking wood resounded through the camp.

"Improvisation- good!" exclaimed Brom, eyes gleaming. His arm moved in a blur, and there was an explosion of pain on the side of Eragon's head. He collapsed like an empty sack, dazed. A splash of cold water roused him to alertness, and he sat up, sputtering. His head was ringing, and there was dried blood on his face. Brom stood over him with a pan of melted snow water.

"You didn't have to do that," said Eragon angrily, pushing himself up. He felt dizzy and unsteady. Brom arched an eyebrow.

"Oh? A real enemy wouldn't soften his blows, and neither will I. Should I pander to your… incompetence so you'll feel better? I don't think so." He picked up the stick that Eragon had dropped and held it out.

"Now, defend yourself."

Eragon stared blankly at the piece of wood, then shook his head. "Forget it; I've had enough." He turned away and stumbled as he was whacked loudly across the back. He spun around, growling.

"Never turn your back to the enemy!" snapped Brom, then tossed the stick at him and attacked. Eragon retreated around the fire, beneath the onslaught. "Pull your arms in. Keep your knees bent," shouted Brom. He continued to give instructions, then paused to show Eragon exactly how to execute a certain move. "Do it again, but this time slowly!"

They slid through the forms with exaggerated motions before returning to their furious battle. Eragon learned quickly, but no matter what he tried, he could not hold Brom off for more than a few blows. When they finished, Eragon flopped on his blankets and groaned. He hurt everywhere- Brom had not been gentle with his stick.

Saphira let out a long, coughing growl and curled her lip until a formidable row of teeth showed.

What's wrong with you? he demanded irritably.

Nothing. she replied. It's funny to see a hatchling like you beaten by the old one.

She made the sound again, and Eragon turned red as he realized that she was laughing. Trying to preserve some dignity, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep.

He felt even worse the next day. Bruises covered his arms, and he was almost too sore to move.

Brom looked up from the mush he was serving and grinned. "How do you feel?"

Eragon grunted and bolted down the breakfast. Once on the road, they traveled swiftly so as to reach Therinsford before noon. After a league, the road widened and they saw smoke in the distance.

"You'd better tell Saphira to fly ahead and wait for us on the other side of Therinsford," said Brom. "She has to be careful here, otherwise people are bound to notice her."

"Why don't you tell her yourself?" challenged Eragon. "It's considered bad manners to interfere with another's dragon."

"You didn't have a problem with it in Carvahall." Brom's lips twitched with a smile.

"I did what I had to." Eragon eyed him darkly, then relayed the instructions.

Saphira warned Be careful; the Empire's servants could be hiding anywhere.

As the ruts in the road deepened, Eragon noticed more footprints. Farms signaled their approach to Therinsford. The village was larger than Carvahall, but it had been constructed haphazardly, the houses aligned in no particular order. "What a mess," said Eragon.

He could not see Dempton's mill. Baldor and Albriech have surely fetched Roran by now. Either way, Eragon had no wish to face his cousin.

"It's ugly, if nothing else," agreed Brom. The Anora River flowed between them and the town, spanned by a stout bridge. As they approached it, a greasy man stepped from behind a bush and barred their way. His shirt was too short, and his dirty stomach spilled over a rope belt. Behind his cracked lips, his teeth looked like crumbling tombstones.

"You c'n stop right there. This's my bridge. Gotta pay t' get over."

"How much?" asked Brom in a resigned voice. He pulled out a pouch, and the bridgekeeper brightened.

"Five crowns," he said, pulling his lips into a broad smile.

Eragon's temper flared at the exorbitant price, and he started to complain hotly, but Brom silenced him with a quick look. The coins were wordlessly handed over. The man put them into a sack hanging from his belt.

"Thank'ee much," he said in a mocking tone, and stood out of the way. As Brom stepped forward, he stumbled and caught the bridgekeeper's arm to support himself.

"Watch y're step," snarled the grimy man, sidling away.

"Sorry," apologized Brom, and continued over the bridge with Eragon.

"Why didn't you haggle? He skinned you alive!" exclaimed Eragon when they were out of earshot. "He probably doesn't even own the bridge. We could have pushed right past him."

"Probably," agreed Brom.

"Then why pay him?"

"Because you can't argue with all of the fools in the world. It's easier to let them have their way, then trick them when they're not paying attention." Brom opened his hand, and a pile of coins glinted in the light.

"You cut his purse!" said Eragon incredulously.

Brom pocketed the money with a wink. "And it held a surprising amount. He should know better than to keep all these coins in one place."

There was a sudden howl of anguish from the other side of the river. "I'd say our friend has just discovered his loss. If you see any watchmen, tell me." He grabbed the shoulder of a young boy running between the houses and asked, "Do you know where we can buy horses?" The child stared at them with solemn eyes, then pointed to a large barn near the edge of Therinsford.

"Thank you," said Brom, tossing him a small coin. The barn's large double doors were open, revealing two long rows of stalls. The far wall was covered with saddles, harnesses, and other paraphernalia. A man with muscular arms stood at the end, brushing a white stallion. He raised a hand and beckoned for them to come over.

As they approached, Brom said, "That's a beautiful animal."

"Yes indeed. His name's Snowfire. Mine's Haberth." Haberth offered a rough palm and shook hands vigorously with Eragon and Brom. There was a polite pause as he waited for their names in return. When they were not forthcoming, he asked, "Can I help you?"

Brom nodded. "We need two horses and a full set of tack for both. The horses have to be fast and tough; we'll be doing a lot of traveling."

Haberth was thoughtful for a moment. "I don't have many animals like that, and the ones I do aren't cheap." The stallion moved restlessly; he calmed it with a few strokes of his fingers.

"Price is no object. I'll take the best you have," said Brom. Haberth nodded and silently tied the stallion to a stall. He went to the wall and started pulling down saddles and other items. Soon he had two identical piles. Next he walked up the line of stalls and brought out two horses. One was a light bay, the other a roan. The bay tugged against his rope.

"He's a little spirited, but with a firm hand you won't have any problems," said Haberth, handing the bay's rope to Brom. Brom let the horse smell his hand; it allowed him to rub its neck. "We'll take him," he said, then eyed the roan. "The other one, however, I'm not so sure of."

"There are some good legs on him."

"Mmm . . . What will you take for Snowfire?"

Haberth looked fondly at the stallion. "I'd rather not sell him. He's the finest I've ever bred—I'm hoping to sire a whole line from him."

"If you were willing to part with him, how much would all of this cost me?" asked Brom.

Eragon tried to put his hand on the bay like Brom had, but it shied away. He automatically reached out with his mind to reassure the horse, stiffening with surprise as he touched the animal's consciousness. The contact was not clear or sharp like it was with Saphira, but he could communicate with the bay to a limited degree. Tentatively, he made it understand that he was a friend. The horse calmed and looked at him with liquid brown eyes.

Haberth used his fingers to add up the price of the purchase. "Two hundred crowns and no less," he said with a smile, clearly confident that no one would pay that much.

Brom silently opened his pouch and counted out the money. "Will this do?" he asked. There was a long silence as Haberth glanced between Snowfire and the coins. A sigh, then, "He is yours, though I go against my heart."

"I will treat him as if he had been sired by Gildintor, the greatest steed of legend," said Brom.

"Your words gladden me," answered Haberth, bowing his head slightly. He helped them saddle the horses. When they were ready to leave, he said, "Farewell, then. For the sake of Snowfire, I hope that misfortune does not befall you."

"Do not fear; I will guard him well," promised Brom as they departed. "Here," he said, handing Snowfire's reins to Eragon, "go to the far side of Therinsford and wait there."

"Why?" asked Eragon, but Brom had already slipped away. Annoyed, he exited Therinsford with the two horses and stationed himself beside the road. To the south he saw the hazy outline of Utgard, sitting like a giant monolith at the end of the valley. Its peak pierced the clouds and rose out of sight, towering over the lesser mountains that surrounded it. Its dark, ominous look made Eragon's scalp tingle. Brom returned shortly and gestured for Eragon to follow. They walked until Therinsford was hidden by trees.

Then Brom said, "The Ra'zac definitely passed this way. Apparently they stopped here to pick up horses, as we did. I was able to find a man who saw them. He described them with many shudders and said that they galloped out of Therinsford like demons fleeing a holy man."

"They left quite an impression."

"Quite."

Eragon patted the horses. "When we were in the barn, I touched the bay's mind by accident. I didn't know it was possible to do that."

Brom frowned. "It's unusual for one as young as you to have the ability. Most Riders had to train for years before they were strong enough to contact anything other than their dragon."

His face was thoughtful as he inspected Snowfire. Then he said, "Take everything from your pack, put it into the saddlebags, and tie the pack on top."

Eragon did so while Brom mounted Snowfire. Eragon gazed doubtfully at the bay. It was so much smaller than Saphira that for an absurd moment he wondered if it could bear his weight. With a sigh, he awkwardly got into the saddle. He had only ridden horses bareback and never for any distance.

"Is this going to do the same thing to my legs as riding Saphira?" he asked.

"How do they feel now?"

"Not too bad, but I think any hard riding will open them up again."

"We'll take it easy," promised Brom. He gave Eragon a few pointers, then they started off at a gentle pace. Before long the countryside began to change as cultivated fields yielded to wilder land. Brambles and tangled weeds lined the road, along with huge rosebushes that clung to their clothes. Tall rocks slanted out of the ground—gray witnesses to their presence. There was an unfriendly feel in the air, an animosity that resisted intruders. Above them, growing larger with every step, loomed Utgard, its craggy precipices deeply furrowed with snowy canyons.

The black rock of the mountain absorbed light like a sponge and dimmed the surrounding area. Between Utgard and the line of mountains that formed the east side of Palancar Valley was a deep cleft. It was the only practical way out of the valley. The road led toward it. The horses' hooves clacked sharply over gravel, and the road dwindled to a skinny trail as it skirted the base of Utgard. Eragon glanced up at the peak looming over them and was startled to see a steepled tower perched upon it. The turret was crumbling and in disrepair, but it was still a stern sentinel over the valley.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing. Brom did not look up, but said sadly and with bitterness, "An outpost of the Riders—one that has lasted since their founding. That was where Vrael took refuge, and where, through treachery, he was found and defeated by Galbatorix. When Vrael fell, this area was tainted. Edoc'sil, 'Unconquerable,' was the name of this bastion, for the mountain is so steep none may reach the top unless they can fly. After Vrael's death the commoners called it Utgard, but it has another name, Ristvak'baen—the 'Place of Sorrow.' It was known as such to the last Riders before they were killed by the king."

Eragon stared with awe. Here was a tangible remnant of the Riders' glory, tarnished though it was by the relentless pull of time. It struck him then just how old the Riders were. A legacy of tradition and heroism that stretched back to antiquity had fallen upon him.

They traveled for long hours around Utgard. It formed a solid wall to their right as they entered the breach that divided the mountain range. Eragon stood in his stirrups; he was impatient to see what lay outside of Palancar, but it was still too far away. For a while they were in a sloped pass, winding over hill and gully, following the Anora River.

Then, with the sun low behind their backs, they mounted a rise and saw over the trees. Eragon gasped. On either side were mountains, but below them stretched a huge plain that extended to the distant horizon and fused into the sky. The plain was a uniform tan, like the color of dead grass. Long, wispy clouds swept by overhead, shaped by fierce winds. He understood now why Brom had insisted on horses. It would have taken them weeks or months to cover that vast distance on foot. Far above he saw Saphira circling, high enough to be mistaken for a bird.

"We'll wait until tomorrow to make the descent," said Brom. "It's going to take most of the day, so we should camp now."

"How far across is the plain?" Eragon asked, still amazed.

"Two or three days to over a fortnight, depending on which direction we go. Aside from the nomad tribes that roam this section of the plains, it's almost as uninhabited as the Hadarac Desert to the east. So we aren't going to find many villages. However, to the south the plains are less arid and more heavily populated."

They left the trail and dismounted by the Anora River. As they unsaddled the horses, Brom gestured at the bay. "You should name him."

Eragon considered it as he picketed the bay. "Well, I don't have anything as noble as Snowfire, but maybe this will do." He placed his hand on the bay and said, "I name you Cadoc. It was my grandfather's name, so bear it well." Brom nodded in approval, but Eragon felt slightly foolish.

When Saphira landed, he asked, How do the plains look?

Dull. There's nothing but rabbits and scrub in every direction.

After dinner, Brom stood and barked, "Catch!" Eragon barely had time to raise his arm and grab the piece of wood before it hit him on the head. He groaned as he saw another makeshift sword.

"Not again," he complained. Brom just smiled and beckoned with one hand. Eragon reluctantly got to his feet. They whirled around in a flurry of smacking wood, and he backed away with a stinging arm. The training session was shorter than the first, but it was still long enough for Eragon to amass a new collection of bruises. When they finished sparring, he threw down the stick in disgust and stalked away from the fire to nurse his injuries.

As he tried to sleep, he was vaguely aware of Brom muttering to Saphira about the egg.

The next morning Eragon avoided bringing to mind any of the recent events; they were too painful for him to consider. Instead, he focused his energies on figuring out how to find and kill the Ra'zac. I'll do it with my bow, he decided, imagining how the cloaked figures would look with arrows sticking out of them. He had difficulty even standing up. His muscles cramped with the slightest movement, and one of his fingers was hot and swollen.

When they were ready to leave, he mounted Cadoc and said acidly, "If this keeps up, you're going to batter me to pieces."

"I wouldn't push you so hard if I didn't think you were strong enough."

"For once, I wouldn't mind being thought less of," muttered Eragon. Cadoc pranced nervously as Saphira approached.

Saphira eyed the horse with something close to disgust and said, There's nowhere to hide on the plains, so I'm not going to bother trying to stay out of sight. I'll just fly above you from now on.

She took off, and they began the steep descent. In many places the trail all but disappeared, leaving them to find their own way down. At times they had to dismount and lead the horses on foot, holding on to trees to keep from falling down the slope. The ground was scattered with loose rocks, which made the footing treacherous. The ordeal left them hot and irritable, despite the cold. They stopped to rest when they reached the bottom near midday.

The Anora River veered to their left and flowed northward. A biting wind scoured the land, whipping them unmercifully. The soil was parched, and dirt flew into their eyes.

It unnerved Eragon how flat everything was; the plains were unbroken by hummocks or mounds. He had lived his entire life surrounded by mountains and hills. Without them he felt exposed and vulnerable, like a mouse under an eagle's keen eye. The trail split in three once it reached the plains. The first branch turned north, toward Ceunon, one of the greatest northern cities; the second one led straight across the plains; and the last went south.

They examined all three for traces of the Ra'zac and eventually found their tracks, heading directly into the grasslands.

"It seems they've gone to Yazuac," said Brom with a perplexed air. "Where's that?"

"Due east and four days away, if all goes well. It's a small village situated by the Ninor River." He gestured at the Anora, which streamed away from them to the north. "Our only supply of water is here. We'll have to replenish our waterskins before attempting to cross the plains. There isn't another pool or stream between here and Yazuac."

The excitement of the hunt began to rise within Eragon. In a few days, maybe less than a week, he would use his arrows to avenge Garrow's then… He refused to think about what might happen afterward, though he certainly knew. They filled the waterskins, watered the horses, and drank as much as they could from the river. Saphira joined them and took several gulps of water. Fortified, they turned eastward and started across the plains.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Although they had managed to partially refill the waterskins during the storm, they drank the last of their water that morning.

"I hope we're going in the right direction," said Eragon, crunching up the empty water bag, "because we'll be in trouble if we don't reach Yazuac today."

Brom did not seem disturbed. "I've traveled this way before. Yazuac will be in sight before dusk."

Eragon laughed doubtfully. "Perhaps you see something I don't. How can you know that when everything looks exactly the same for leagues around?"

"Because I am guided not by the land, but by the stars and sun. They will not lead us astray. Come! Let us be off. It is foolish to conjure up woe where none exists. Yazuac will be there."

His words proved true. Saphira spotted the village first, but it was not until later in the day that the rest of them saw it as a dark bump on the horizon. Yazuac was still very far away; it was only visible because of the plain's uniform flatness. As they rode closer, a dark winding line appeared on either side of the town and disappeared in the distance.

"The Ninor River," said Brom, pointing at it. Eragon pulled Cadoc to a stop.

"Saphira will be seen if she stays with us much longer. Should she hide while we go into Yazuac?"

Brom scratched his chin and looked at the town. "See that bend in the river? Have her wait there. It's far enough from Yazuac so no one should find her, but close enough that she won't be left behind. We'll go through the town, get what we need, and then meet her."

I don't like it. said Saphira when Eragon had explained the plan.This is irritating, having to hide all the time like a criminal.

You know what would happen if we were revealed.

She grumbled but gave in and flew away low to the ground. They kept a swift pace in anticipation of the food and drink they would soon enjoy. As they approached the small houses, they could see smoke from a dozen chimneys, but there was no one in the streets. An abnormal silence enveloped the village. By unspoken consent they stopped before the first house.

Eragon abruptly said, "There aren't any dogs barking."

"No."

"Doesn't mean anything, though."

"...No."

Eragon paused. "Someone should have seen us by now."

"Yes."

"Then why hasn't anyone come out?"

Brom squinted at the sun. "Could be afraid."

"Could be," said Eragon. He was quiet for a moment. "And if it's a trap? The Ra'zac might be waiting for us."

"We need provisions and water."

"There's the Ninor."

"Still need provisions."

"True." Eragon looked around. "So we go in?"

Brom flicked his reins. "Yes, but not like fools. This is the main entrance to Yazuac. If there's an ambush, it'll be along here. No one will expect us to arrive from a different direction."

"Around to the side, then?" asked Eragon. Brom nodded and pulled out his sword, resting the bare blade across his saddle. Eragon strung his bow and nocked an arrow. They trotted quietly around the town and entered it cautiously. The streets were empty, except for a small fox that darted away as they came near. The houses were dark and foreboding, with shattered windows. Many of the doors swung on broken hinges. The horses rolled their eyes nervously. Eragon's palm tingled, but he resisted the urge to scratch it. As they rode into the center of town, he gripped his bow tighter, blanching.

"Gods above," he whispered. A mountain of bodies rose above them, the corpses stiff and grimacing. Their clothes were soaked in blood, and the churned ground was stained with it. Slaughtered men lay over the women they had tried to protect, mothers still clasped their children, and lovers who had tried to shield each other rested in death's cold embrace.

Black arrows stuck out of them all. Neither young nor old had been spared. But worst of all was the barbed spear that rose out of the peak of the pile, impaling the white body of a baby. Tears blurred Eragon's vision and he tried to look away, but the dead faces held his attention. He stared at their open eyes and wondered how life could have left them so easily.

What does our existence mean when it can end like this? A wave of hopelessness overwhelmed him. A crow dipped out of the sky, like a black shadow, and perched on the spear. It cocked its head and greedily scrutinized the infant's corpse.

"Oh no you don't," snarled Eragon as he pulled back the bowstring and released it with a twang. With a puff of feathers, the crow fell over backward, the arrow protruding from its chest. Eragon fit another arrow to the string, but nausea rose from his stomach and he threw up over Cadoc's side. Brom patted him on the back. When Eragon was done, Brom asked gently,

"Do you want to wait for me outside Yazuac?"

"No… I'll stay," said Eragon shakily, wiping his mouth. He avoided looking at the gruesome sight before them.

"Who could have done…" He could not force out the words.

Brom bowed his head. "Those who love the pain and suffering of others. They wear many faces and go by many disguises, but there is only one name for them: evil. There is no understanding it. All we can do is pity and honor the victims."

He dismounted Snowfire and walked around, inspecting the trampled ground carefully. "The Ra'zac passed this way," he said slowly, "but this wasn't their doing. This is Urgal work; the spear is of their make. A company of them came through here, perhaps as many as a hundred. It's odd; I know of only a few instances when they have gathered in such…" He knelt and examined a footprint intently.

With a curse he ran back to Snowfire and leapt onto him. "Ride!" he hissed tightly, spurring Snowfire forward. "There are still Urgals here!" Eragon jammed his heels into Cadoc. The horse jumped forward and raced after Snowfire. They dashed past the houses and were almost to the edge of Yazuac when Eragon's palm tingled again. He saw a flicker of movement to his right, then a giant fist smashed him out of the saddle.

He flew back over Cadoc and crashed into a wall, holding on to his bow only by instinct. Gasping and stunned, he staggered upright, hugging his side. An Urgal stood over him, face set in a gross leer. The monster was tall, thick, and broader than a doorway, with gray skin and yellow piggish eyes. Muscles bulged on his arms and chest, which was covered by a too small breastplate. An iron cap rested over the pair of ram's horns curling from his temples, and a roundshield was bound to one arm. His powerful hand held a short, wicked sword.

Behind him, Eragon saw Brom rein in Snowfire and start back, only to be stopped by the appearance of a second Urgal, this one with an ax. "Run, you fool!" Brom cried to Eragon, cleaving at his enemy. The Urgal in front of Eragon roared and swung his sword mightily. Eragon jerked back with a startled yelp as the weapon whistled past his cheek. He spun around and fled toward the center of Yazuac, heart pounding wildly.

The Urgal pursued him, heavy boots thudding. Eragon sent a desperate cry for help to Saphira, then forced himself to go even faster. The Urgal rapidly gained ground despite Eragon's efforts; large fangs separated in a soundless bellow. With the Urgal almost upon him, Eragon strung an arrow, spun to a stop, took aim, and released. The Urgal snapped up his arm and caught the quivering bolt on his shield.

The monster collided with Eragon before he could shoot again, and they fell to the ground in a confused tangle. Eragon sprang to his feet and rushed back to Brom, who was trading fierce blows with his opponent from Snowfire's back.

Where are the rest of the Urgals? wondered Eragon frantically. Are these two the only ones in Yazuac? There was a loud smack, and Snowfire reared, whinnying. Brom doubled over in his saddle, blood streaming down his arm. The Urgal beside him howled in triumph and raised his ax for the death blow. A deafening scream tore out of Eragon as he charged the Urgal, headfirst.

The Urgal paused in astonishment, then faced him contemptuously, swinging his ax. Eragon ducked under the two-handed blow and clawed the Urgal's side, leaving bloody furrows. The Urgal's face twisted with rage. He slashed again, but missed as Eragon dived to the side and scrambled down an alley. Eragon concentrated on leading the Urgals away from Brom. He slipped into a narrow passageway between two houses, saw it was a dead end, and slid to a stop. He tried to back out, but the Urgals had already blocked the entrance.

They advanced, cursing him in their gravelly voices. Eragon swung his head from side to side, searching for a way out, but there was none. As he faced the Urgals, images flashed in his mind: dead villagers piled around the spear and an innocent baby who would never grow to adulthood. At the thought of their fate, a burning, fiery power gathered from every part of his body.

It was more than a desire for justice. It was his entire being rebelling against the fact of death- that he would cease to exist. The power grew stronger and stronger until he felt ready to burst from the contained force. He stood tall and straight, all fear gone. He raised his bow smoothly. The Urgals laughed and lifted their shields. Eragon sighted down the shaft, as he had done hundreds of times, and aligned the arrowhead with his target. The energy inside him burned at an unbearable level. He had to release it, or it would consume him. A word suddenly leapt unbidden to his lips. He shot, yelling, "Brisingr!" The arrow hissed through the air, glowing with a crackling blue light. It struck the lead Urgal on the forehead, and the air resounded with an explosion. A blue shock wave blasted out of the monster's head, killing the other Urgal instantly. It reached Eragon before he had time to react, and it passed through him without harm, dissipating against the houses. Eragon stood panting, then looked at his icy palm. The gedwëy ignasia was glowing like white-hot metal, yet even as he watched, it faded back to normal. He clenched his fist, then a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He felt strange and feeble, as if he had not eaten for days. His knees buckled, and he sagged against a wall.

Once a modicum of strength returned to him, Eragon staggered out of the alley, skirting the dead monsters. He did not get far before Cadoc trotted to his side. "Good, you weren't hurt," mumbled Eragon.

He noticed, without particularly caring, that his hands were shaking violently and his movements were jerky. He felt detached, as if everything he saw were happening to someone else. Eragon found Snowfire, nostrils flared and ears flat against his head, prancing by the corner of a house, ready to bolt.

Brom was still slumped motionless in the saddle. Eragon reached out with his mind and soothed the horse. Once Snowfire relaxed, Eragon went to Brom. There was a long, blood-soaked cut on the old man's right arm. The wound bled profusely, but it was neither deep nor wide. Still, Eragon knew it had to be bound before Brom lost too much blood. He stroked Snowfire for a moment, then slid Brom out of the saddle.

The weight proved too much for him, and Brom dropped heavily to the ground. Eragon was shocked by his own weakness. A scream of rage filled his head. Saphira dived out of the sky and landed fiercely in front of him, keeping her wings half raised. She hissed angrily, eyes burning. Her tail lashed, and Eragon winced as it snapped overhead.

Are you hurt? she asked, rage boiling in her voice. "No," he assured her as he laid Brom on his back.

She growled and exclaimed Where are the ones who did this? I will tear them apart! He wearily pointed in the direction of the alley.

"It'll do no good; they're already dead."

You killed them? Saphira sounded surprised.

He nodded. "Somehow." With a few terse words, he told her what had happened while he searched his saddlebags for the rags in which Undbitr had been wrapped.

Saphira said gravely: You have grown.

Eragon grunted. He found a long rag and carefully rolled back Brom's sleeve. With a few deft strokes he cleaned the cut and bandaged it tightly.

I wish we were still in Palancar Valley. he said to Saphira. There, at least, I knew what plants were good for healing. Here, I don't have any idea what will help him.

He retrieved Zar'roc from the ground, wiped it, then returned it to the sheath on Brom's belt.

We should leave said Saphira. There may be more Urgals lurking about.

Can you carry Brom? Your saddle will hold him in place, and you can protect him.

Yes, but I'm not leaving you alone.

Fine, fly next to me, but let's get out of here.

He tied the saddle onto Saphira, then put his arms around Brom and tried to lift him, but again his diminished strength failed him .

Saphira- help. She snaked her head past him and caught the back of Brom's robe between her teeth. Arching her neck, she lifted the old man off the ground, like a cat would a kitten, and deposited him onto her back.

Then Eragon slipped Brom's legs through the saddle's straps and tightened them. He looked up when the old man moaned and shifted. Brom blinked blearily, putting a hand to his head. He gazed down at Eragon with concern.

"Did Saphira get here in time?"

Eragon shook his head. "I'll explain it later. Your arm is injured. I bandaged it as best I could, but you need a safe place to rest."

"Yes," said Brom, gingerly touching his arm. "Do you know where… Ah, I see you found it."

Eragon finished tightening the straps. "Saphira's going to take you and follow me by air."

"Are you sure you want me to ride her?" asked Brom. "I can ride Snowfire."

"Not with that arm. This way, even if you faint, you won't fall off."

Brom nodded. "I'm honored." He wrapped his good arm around Saphira's neck, and she took off in a flurry, springing high into the sky.

Eragon backed away, buffeted by the eddies from her wings, and returned to the horses. He tied Snowfire behind Cadoc, then left Yazuac, returning to the trail and following it southward. It led through a rocky area, veered left, and continued along the bank of the Ninor River. Ferns, mosses, and small bushes dotted the side of the path. It was refreshingly cool under the trees, but Eragon did not let the soothing air lull him into a sense of security. He stopped briefly to fill the waterskins and let the horses drink. Glancing down, he saw the Ra'zac's spoor.

At least we're going in the right direction.

Saphira circled overhead, keeping a keen eye on him. It disturbed him that they had seen only two Urgals. The villagers had been killed and Yazuac ransacked by a large horde, yet where was it?Perhaps the ones we encountered were a rear guard or a trap left for anyone who was following the main force. His thought sturned to how he had killed the Urgals.

An idea, a revelation, slowly wormed its way through his mind. He, Eragon- farm boy of Palancar Valley- had used ! It was the only word for what had happened. It seemed impossible, but he could not deny what he had seen. Somehow I've become a sorcerer or wizard!

But he did not know how to use this new power again or what its limits and dangers might be. How can I have this ability? Was it common among the Riders? And if Brom knew of it, why didn't he tell me?

He shook his head in wonder and bewilderment. He conversed with Saphira to check on Brom's condition and to share his thoughts. She was just as puzzled as he was about the magic.

Saphira, can you find a place to stay? I can't see very far down here.

While she searched, he continued along the Ninor. The summons reached him just as the light was fading.

Come. Saphira sent him an image of a secluded clearing in the trees by the river.

Eragon turned the horses in the new direction and nudged them into a trot. With Saphira's help it was easy to find, but it was so well hidden that he doubted anyone else would notice it. A small, smokeless fire was already burning when he entered the clearing. Brom sat next to it, tending his arm, which he held at an awkward angle.

Saphira was crouched beside him, her body tense. She looked intently at Eragon and asked Are you sure you aren't hurt? Not on the outside… but I'm not sure about the rest of me.

I should have been there sooner.

Don't feel bad. We all made mistakes today. Mine was not staying closer to you.

Her gratitude for that remark washed over him. He looked at Brom. "How are you?"

The old man glanced at his arm. "It's a large scratch and hurts terribly, but it should heal quickly enough. I need a fresh bandage; this one didn't last as long as I'd hoped." They boiled water to wash Brom's wound.

Then Brom tied a fresh rag to his arm and said, "I must eat, and you look hungry as well. Let's have dinner first, then talk." When their bellies were full and warm, Brom lit his pipe. "Now, I think it's time for you to tell me what transpired while I was unconscious. I am most curious." His face reflected the flickering firelight, and his bushy eyebrows stuck out fiercely. Eragon nervously clasped his hands and told the story without embellishment. Brom remained silent throughout it, his face inscrutable. When Eragon finished, Brom looked down at the ground. For a long time the only sound was the snapping fire. Brom finally stirred. "Have you used this power before?" "No. Do you know anything about it?"

"A little." Brom's face was thoughtful. "It seems I owe you a debt for saving my life. I hope I can return the favor someday. You should be proud; few escape unscathed from slaying their first Urgal. But the manner in which you did it was very dangerous. You could have destroyed yourself and the whole town."

"It wasn't as if I had a choice," said Eragon defensively. "The Urgals were almost upon me. If I had waited, they would have chopped me into pieces!"

Brom stamped his teeth vigorously on the pipe stem. "You didn't have any idea what you were doing."

"Then tell me," challenged Eragon. "I've been searching for answers to this mystery, but I can't make sense of it. What happened? How could I have possibly used magic? No one has ever instructed me in it or taught me spells."

Brom's eyes flashed. "This isn't something you should be taught, much less use!"

"Well, I have used it, and I may need it to fight again. But I won't be able to if you don't help me. What's wrong? Is there some secret I'm not supposed to learn until I'm old and wise? Or maybe you don't know anything about magic!"

"Boy!" roared Brom. "You demand answers with an insolence rarely seen. If you knew what you asked for, you would not be so quick to inquire. Do not try me."

He paused, then relaxed into a kinder countenance. "The knowledge you ask for is more complex than you understand."

Eragon rose hotly in protest. "I feel as though I've been thrust into a world with strange rules that no one will explain."

"I understand," said Brom. He fiddled with a piece of grass. "It's late and we should sleep, but I will tell you a few things now, to stop your badgering. This magic; for it is magic, has rules like the rest of the world. If you break the rules, the penalty is death, without exception. Your deeds are limited by your strength, the words you know, and your imagination."

"What do you mean by words?" asked Eragon.

"More questions!" cried Brom. "For a moment I had hoped you were empty of them. But you are quite right in asking. When you shot the Urgals, didn't you say something?"

"Yes, brisingr." The fire flared, and a shiver ran through Eragon. Something about the word made him feel incredibly alive.

"I thought so. Brisingr is from an ancient language that all living things used to speak. However, it was forgotten over time and went unspoken for eons in Alagaësia, until the elves brought it back over the sea. They taught it to the other races, who used it for making and doing powerful things. The language has a name for everything, if you can find it."

"But what does that have to do with magic?" interrupted Eragon.

"Everything! It is the basis for all power. The language describes the true nature of things, not the superficial aspects that everyone sees. For example, fire is called brisingr . Not only is that a name for fire, it is the name for fire. If you are strong enough, you can use brisingr to direct fire to do whatever you will. And that is what happened today."

Eragon thought about it for a moment. "Why was the fire blue? How come it did exactly what I wanted, if all I said was fire ?"

"The color varies from person to person. It depends on who says the word. As to why the fire did what you wanted, that's a matter of practice. Most beginners have to spell out exactly what they want to happen. As they gain more experience, it isn't as necessary. A true master could just say water and create something totally unrelated, like a gemstone. You wouldn't be able to understand how he had done it, but the master would have seen the connection between water and the gem and would have used that as the focal point for his power. The practice is more of an art than anything else. What you did was extremely difficult."

Saphira interrupted Eragon's thoughts. Brom is a magician! That's how he was able to light the fire on the plains. He doesn't just know about magic; he can use it himself!

Eragon's eyes widened. You're right!

Ask him about this power, but be careful of what you say. It is unwise to trifle with those who have such abilities. If he is a wizard or sorcerer, who knows what his motives might have been for settling in Carvahall?

Eragon kept that in mind as he said carefully, "Saphira and I just realized something. You can use this magic, can't you? That's how you started the fire our first day on the plains."

Brom inclined his head slightly. "I am proficient to some degree."

"Then why didn't you fight the Urgals with it? In fact, I can think of many times when it would have been useful; you could have shielded us from the storm and kept the dirt out of our eyes."

After refilling his pipe, Brom said, "Some simple reasons, really. I am not a Rider, which means that, even at your weakest moment, you are stronger than I. And I have outlived my youth; I'm not as strong as I used to be. Every time I reach for magic, it gets a little harder." Eragon dropped his eyes, abashed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Brom as he shifted his arm. "It happens to everyone."

"Where did you learn to use magic?"

"That is one fact I'll keep to myself. . . . Suffice it to say, it was in a remote area and from a very good teacher. I can, at the very least, pass on his lessons." Brom snuffed his pipe with a small rock. "I know that you have more questions, and I will answer them, but they must wait until morning." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Until then, I will say this to discourage any experiments: magic takes just as much energy as if you used your arms and back. That is why you felt tired after destroying the Urgals. And that is why I was angry. It was a dreadful risk on your part. If the magic had used more energy than was in your body, it would have killed you. You should use magic only for tasks that can't be accomplished the mundane way."

"How do you know if a spell will use all your energy?" asked Eragon, frightened.

Brom raised his hands. "Most of the time you don't. That's why magicians have to know their limits well, and even then they are cautious. Once you commit to a task and release the magic, you can't pull it back, even if it's going to kill you. I mean this as a warning: don't try anything until you've learned more. Now, enough of this for tonight."

As they spread out their blankets, Saphira commented with satisfaction We are becoming more powerful, Eragon, both of us. Soon no one will be able to stand in our way.\

Yes, but which way shall we choose?

Whichever one we want. she said smugly, settling down for the night.