Even as Eragon was wondering whether they were supposed to fight the creature, he felt a strange, vast mind touch his. The consciousness was unlike any he had encountered before, and it seemed to contain a host of shouting voices, a great, disjointed chorus that reminded him of the wind inside a storm.
Before he could react, the mind stabbed through his defenses and seized control of his thoughts. For all the time he had spent practicing with Glaedr, Arya, and Saphira, he could not stop the attack; he could not even slow it. He might as well have tried to hold back the tide with his bare hands.
A blur of light and a roar of incoherent noise surrounded him as the yammering chorus forced itself into every nook and cranny of his being. Then it felt as if the invader tore his mind into a half-dozen pieces—each of which remained aware of the others, but none of which was free to do as it wished—and his vision fragmented, as if he were seeing the chamber through the facets of a jewel.
Six different memories began to race through his fractured consciousness. He had not chosen to recall them; they simply appeared, and they flew past faster than he could follow. At the same time, his body bent and flexed in various poses, and then his arm lifted Brisingr to where his eyes could see, and he beheld six identical versions of the sword. The invader even had him cast a spell, the purpose of which he did not and could not understand, for the only thoughts he had were those the other allowed. Nor did he feel any emotion but that of fading alarm.
For what seemed like hours, the alien mind examined every one of his memories, from the moment he had set out from his family’s farm to hunt deer in the Spine—three days before he had found Saphira’s egg—up until the present. In the back of his mind, Eragon could sense the same thing happening to Saphira, but the knowledge meant nothing to him.
At last, long after he would have given up hope of release if he still had command of his thoughts, the whirling chorus carefully rejoined the pieces of his mind and then withdrew.
Eragon staggered forward and dropped to one knee before he was able to regain his balance. Beside him, Saphira lurched and snapped at the air.
How? he thought. Who? To capture both of them at once, and Glaedr as well, he assumed, was something he did not believe even Galbatorix was capable of.
Again the consciousness pressed against Eragon’s mind, but this time it did not attack. This time it said, Our apologies, Saphira. Our apologies, Eragon, but we had to be certain of your intentions. Welcome to the Vault of Souls. Long have we waited for you. And welcome to you as well, cousin. We are glad that you are still alive. Take now your memories, and know that your task is at long last complete!
A bolt of energy flashed between Glaedr and the consciousness. An instant later, Glaedr uttered a mental bellow that made Eragon’s temples throb with pain. A surge of jumbled emotions rushed forth from the golden dragon: sorrow, triumph, disbelief, regret, and, overriding them all, a sense of joyous relief so intense, Eragon found himself smiling without knowing why. And brushing against Glaedr’s mind, he felt not just one strange mind but a multitude, all whispering and murmuring.
“Who?” whispered Eragon. Before them, the man with the head of a dragon had not shifted so much as an inch.
Eragon, said Saphira. Look at the wall. Look …
He looked. And he saw that the circular wall was not decorated with crystal, as he had first taken it to be. Rather, dozens upon dozens of alcoves dotted the wall, and within each alcove rested a glittering orb. Some were large, some were small, but they all pulsed with a soft inner glow, like coals smoldering in a dying campfire.
Eragon’s heart skipped a beat as comprehension dawned upon him.
He lowered his gaze to the dark objects on the tiers below; they were smooth and ovoid and appeared to have been sculpted from stone of differing colors. As with the orbs, some were large and some were small, but regardless of their size, their shape was one he would have recognized anywhere.
A hot flush crept over him, and his knees grew weak. It cannot be. He wanted to believe what he saw, but he feared that it might be an illusion created to prey on his hopes. And yet the possibility that what he beheld was actually there took his breath away and left him staggered and overwhelmed to such a degree that he knew not what to do or say. Saphira’s reaction was much the same, if not stronger.
Then the mind spoke again: You are not mistaken, hatchlings, nor do your eyes deceive you. We are the secret hope of our race. Here lie our hearts of hearts—the last free Eldunarí in the land—and here lie the eggs that we have guarded for over a century.
LACUNA, PART THE SECOND
FOR A MOMENT, Eragon was unable to move or breathe.
Then he whispered, “Eggs, Saphira. … Eggs.”
She shivered, as if with cold, and the scales along her spine prickled and lifted their tips slightly from her hide.
Who are you? he asked the mind. How do we know if we can trust you?
They speak the truth, Eragon, said Glaedr in the ancient language. I know, for Oromis was among those who devised the plan for this place.
Oromis …?
Before Glaedr could elaborate, the other mind said, My name is Umaroth. My Rider was the elf Vrael, leader of our order before our doom came upon us. I speak for the others but I do not command them, for while many of us were bonded with Riders, more were not, and our wild brethren acknowledge no authority but their own. This he said with a hint of exasperation. It would be too confusing for all of us to speak at once, so my voice will stand for the rest.
Are you …? And Eragon indicated the silvery, dragon-headed man in front of him and Saphira.
Nay, replied Umaroth. He is Cuaroc, Hunter of the Nïdhwal and Bane of the Urgals. Silvarí the Enchantress fashioned for him the body he now wears, so that we would have a champion to defend us should Galbatorix or any foes force their way into the Vault of Souls.
As Umaroth spoke, the dragon-headed man reached across his torso with his right hand, undid a hidden latch, and pulled open the front of his chest, as if he were pulling open the door to a cupboard. Within Cuaroc’s chest nestled a purple heart of hearts, which was surrounded by thousands of silver wires, each no thicker than a hair. Then Cuaroc swung shut his breastplate, and Umaroth said, No, I am over here, and he directed Eragon’s vision toward an alcove that contained a large white Eldunarí.
Eragon slowly sheathed Brisingr.
Eggs and Eldunarí. Eragon could not seem to grasp the enormity of the revelation all at once. His thoughts felt slow and sluggish, as if he had taken a blow to the head—which, in a way, he supposed he had.
He started toward the tiers to the right of the black, glyph-covered arch, then paused before Cuaroc and said, both out loud and with his mind, “May I?”
The dragon-headed man clacked his teeth together and retreated with crashing steps to stand by the glowing pit in the center of the room. He kept his sword out, however, something of which Eragon remained constantly aware.
A sense of wonder and reverence gripped Eragon as he approached the eggs. He leaned against the lower tier and released a shuddering breath while he stared at a gold and red egg that was almost five feet tall. Struck by a sudden urge, he peeled off a glove and placed the palm of his bare hand against the egg. It was warm to the touch, and when he extended his mind along with his hand, he could feel the slumbering consciousness of the unhatched dragon within.
Saphira’s hot breath passed across his neck as she joined him.
Your egg was smaller than this, he said.
That is because my mother was not so old and not so large as the dragon who laid this one.
Ahh. I hadn’t thought of that.
He looked out over the rest of the eggs and felt his throat tighten. “There are so many,” he whispered. He pressed his shoulder against Saphira’s massive jaw and felt the quivers coursing through her. She wanted, he could tell, nothing more than to rejoice and embrace the minds of her kin, but like him, she could hardly bring herself to believe that what
she beheld was real.
She snorted and swung her head around until she was looking at the rest of the room, and then she uttered a roar that shook dust from the ceiling. How?! she growled with her mind. How could you have escaped Galbatorix? We dragons do not hide when we fight. We are not cowards to run from danger. Explain yourselves!
Not so loudly, Bjartskular, or you will upset the younglings in their eggs, chided Umaroth.
Saphira’s muzzle creased as she snarled. Then speak, old one, and tell us how this can be.
For a moment, Umaroth seemed amused, but when the dragon answered her, his words were somber. You are correct: we are not cowards, and we do not hide when we fight, but even dragons may lie in wait so as to catch their prey by surprise. Would you not agree, Saphira?
She snorted again and lashed her tail from side to side.
And we are not like the Fanghur or the lesser vipers who abandon their young to live or die according to the whims of fate. Had we joined the battle for Doru Araeba, we would only have been destroyed. Galbatorix’s victory would have been absolute—as indeed he believes it was—and our kind would have passed forever from the face of the earth.
Once the true extent of Galbatorix’s power and ambition became evident, said Glaedr, and once we realized that he and the traitors with him intended to attack Vroengard, then Vrael, Umaroth, Oromis, and I, and a few others, decided that it would be best to hide the eggs of our race, as well as a number of the Eldunarí. It was easy to convince the wild dragons; Galbatorix had been hunting them, and they had no defense against his magic. They came here, and they gave charge of their unhatched offspring to Vrael, and those who could laid eggs when otherwise they would have waited, for we knew that the survival of our race was threatened. Our precautions, it seems, were well thought of.
Eragon rubbed his temples. “Why didn’t you know of this before? Why didn’t Oromis? And how is it possible to hide their minds? You told me it couldn’t be done.”
It can’t, replied Glaedr, or at least not with magic alone. In this instance, however, where magic fails, distance may yet succeed. That is why we are far underground, a mile below Mount Erolas. Even if Galbatorix or the Forsworn had thought to search with their minds in such an unlikely location, the intervening rock would have made it difficult for them to feel much more than a confused flux of energy, which they would have attributed to eddies within the blood of the earth, which lies close beneath us. Moreover, before the Battle of Doru Araeba, more than a hundred years ago, all of the Eldunarí were placed in a trance so deep as to be akin to death, which made them that much more difficult to find. Our plan was to rouse them after the fighting was over, but those who built this place also cast a spell that would wake them from their trance once several moons had passed.
As it did, said Umaroth. The Vault of Souls was placed here for another reason as well. The pit you see before you opens onto a lake of molten stone that has lain beneath these mountains since the world was born. It provides the warmth needed to keep the eggs comfortable, and it also provides the light needed for us Eldunarí to maintain our strength.
Addressing Glaedr, Eragon said, You still haven’t answered my question: why didn’t you or Oromis remember this place?
Umaroth was the one who answered: Because all who knew of the Vault of Souls agreed to have the knowledge removed from their minds and replaced with a false memory, including Glaedr. It was not an easy decision, especially for the mothers of the eggs, but we could not allow anyone outside this room to remain in possession of the truth, lest Galbatorix should learn of us from them. So we said farewell to our friends and comrades, knowing full well that we might never see them again and that, if the worst came to pass, they would die believing we had entered into the void. … As I said, it was not an easy decision. We also erased from all memory the names of the rock that marks the entrance to this sanctuary, even as we had earlier erased the names of the thirteen dragons who chose to betray us.
I’ve spent the last hundred years believing that our kind was doomed to oblivion, said Glaedr. Now, to know that all my anguish was for naught … I am glad, though, that I was able to help safeguard our race through my ignorance.
Then Saphira said to Umaroth, Why didn’t Galbatorix notice that you and the eggs were missing?
He thought we were killed in the battle. We were but a small portion of the Eldunarí on Vroengard, not enough for him to become suspicious of our absence. As for the eggs, no doubt he was enraged by their loss, but he would have had no reason to believe trickery was involved.
Ah yes, said Glaedr sadly. That was why Thuviel agreed to sacrifice himself: to conceal our deception from Galbatorix.
“But didn’t Thuviel kill many of his own?” said Eragon.
He did, and it was a great tragedy, said Umaroth. However, we had agreed that he was not to act unless it was obvious that defeat was unavoidable. By immolating himself, he destroyed the buildings where we normally kept the eggs, and he also rendered the island poisonous to ensure that Galbatorix would not choose to settle here.
“Did he know why he was killing himself?”
At the time, no, only that it was necessary. One of the Forsworn had slain Thuviel’s dragon a month before. Though he had refrained from passing into the void, as we needed every warrior we had to fight Galbatorix, Thuviel no longer wished to continue living. He was glad for the task then; it granted him the release he yearned for while also allowing him to serve our cause. By the gift of his life, he secured a future for both our race and the Riders. He was a great and courageous hero, and his name shall someday be sung in every corner of Alagaësia.
And after the battle, you waited, said Saphira.
And then we waited, Umaroth agreed. The thought of spending over a hundred years within a single room buried deep underground made Eragon quail. But we have not been idle. When we woke from our trance, we began to cast our minds out, slowly at first, and then with ever-greater confidence once we realized Galbatorix and the Forsworn had left the island. Together our strength is great, and we have been able to observe much of what has transpired throughout the land in the years since. We cannot scry, not normally, but we can see the skeins of tangled energy strewn across Alagaësia, and we can often listen to the thoughts of those who make no effort to defend their minds. In that way, we have gathered our information.
As the decades crawled past, we began to despair that anyone would be able to kill Galbatorix. We were prepared to wait for centuries if needed, but we could sense the Egg-breaker’s power growing, and we feared that our wait might be one of thousands of years instead of hundreds. That, we agreed, would be unacceptable, both for the sake of our sanity and for the sake of the younglings in the eggs. They are bound with magic that slows their bodies, and they can remain as they are for years more, but it is not good for them to stay within their shells for too long. If they do, their minds can grow twisted and strange.
Thus spurred by our concern, we began to intervene in the events we saw. At first only in small ways: a nudge here, a whispered suggestion there, a sense of alarm to one about to be ambushed. We did not always succeed, but we were able to help those who still fought Galbatorix, and as time progressed, we grew more adept and more confident with our tampering. On a few rare occasions, our presence was noticed, but no one was ever able to determine who or what we were. Thrice we were able to arrange the death of one of the Forsworn; when not ruled by his passions, Brom was a useful weapon for us.
“You helped Brom!” Eragon exclaimed.
We did, and many others as well. When the human known as Hefring stole Saphira’s egg from Galbatorix’s treasure room—nigh on twenty years ago—we aided his escape, but we went too far, for he noticed us and became frightened. He fled and did not meet with the Varden as he was supposed to. Later, after Brom had rescued your egg, and the Varden and the elves started to bring younglings before it in an attempt to find the one for whom you would hatch, we decided that we should make certain prepa
rations for that eventuality. So we reached out to the werecats, who have long been friends of the dragons, and we spoke with them. They agreed to help us, and to them we gave the knowledge of the Rock of Kuthian and the brightsteel beneath the roots of the Menoa tree, and then we removed all memory of our conversation from their minds.
“You did all that, from here?” said Eragon, wondering.
And more. Have you never wondered why Saphira’s egg happened to appear in front of you while you were in the midst of the Spine?
That was your doing? said Saphira, her shock as strong as Eragon’s.
“I thought it was because Brom is my father, and Arya mistook me for him.”
Nay, said Umaroth. The spells of elves do not so easily go astray. We altered the flow of magic so that you and Saphira would meet. We thought there was a chance—a small one, but a chance nevertheless—that you might prove a fit match for her. We were right.
“Why didn’t you bring us here sooner, though?” asked Eragon.
Because you needed time for your training, and otherwise we risked alerting Galbatorix to our presence before you or the Varden were ready to confront him. If we had contacted you after the Battle of the Burning Plains, for example, what good would it have done, with the Varden still so far from Urû’baen?
There was silence for a minute.
Eragon slowly said, “What else have you done for us?”
A few nudges, warnings mostly. Visions of Arya in Gil’ead, when she needed your aid. The healing of your back during the Agaetí Blödhren.
A feeling of disapproval emanated from Glaedr. You sent them to Gil’ead, untrained and without wards, knowing that they would have to face a Shade?