And then there were Thorn and Murtagh. Galbatorix might not stir from his stronghold, but the red dragon and his Rider were sure to defend the city. Eragon and Saphira will have to lure them away. Otherwise, we’ll never make it over the walls. Roran frowned. That would be a problem. Murtagh was stronger than Eragon now. Eragon would need the help of the elves to kill him.
Once again, Roran felt bitter anger and resentment welling up inside him. He hated that he was at the mercy of those who could use magic. At least when it came to strength and cunning, a man might make up for a lack of one with a surfeit of the other. But there was no making up for the absence of magic.
Frustrated, he scooped up a pebble from the ground and, as Eragon had taught him, said, “Stenr rïsa.” The pebble remained motionless.
The pebble always remained motionless.
He snorted and tossed it by the side of the road.
His wife and unborn child were with the Varden, and yet there was nothing he could do to kill either Murtagh or Galbatorix. He clenched his fists and imagined breaking things. Bones, mostly.
Maybe we should flee. It was the first time the thought had occurred to him. He knew there were lands to the east beyond Galbatorix’s reach—fertile plains where none but nomads lived. If the other villagers came with him and Katrina, they could start anew, free of the Empire and Galbatorix. The idea made him sick to consider, however. He would be abandoning Eragon, his men, and the land that he called home. No. I won’t allow our child to be born into a world where Galbatorix still holds sway. Better to die than to live in fear.
Of course, that still did not solve the problem of how to capture Urû’baen. Always before, there had been a weakness he could exploit. In Carvahall, it had been the Ra’zac’s failure to understand that the villagers would fight. When he wrestled the Urgal Yarbog, it had been the creature’s horns. In Aroughs, it had been the canals. But here at Urû’baen, he saw no weaknesses, no place where he could turn his opponents’ strength against them.
If we had the supplies, I would wait and starve them out. That would be the best way. Anything else is madness. But as he knew, war was a catalog of madness.
Magic is the only way, he finally concluded. Magic and Saphira. If we can kill Murtagh, then either she or the elves will have to help us past the walls.
He scowled, a sour taste in his mouth, and quickened his stride. The faster they made camp, the better. His feet were sore from walking, and if he was going to die in a senseless charge, then at least he wanted a hot meal and a good night’s sleep beforehand.
The Varden set up their tents a mile from Urû’baen, by a small stream that fed the Ramr River. Then the men, dwarves, and Urgals began constructing defenses, a process that would continue until night and then resume in the morning. In fact, as long as they stayed in one location, they would continue to work on reinforcing their perimeter. The warriors detested the labor, but it kept them busy and, moreover, it might save their lives.
Everyone thought the orders came from the shadow-Eragon. Roran knew they actually came from Jörmundur. He had come to respect the older warrior since Nasuada’s abduction and Eragon’s departure. Jörmundur had been fighting the Empire nearly his whole life, and he had a deep understanding of tactics and logistics. He and Roran got along well; they were both men of steel, not magic.
And then there was King Orrin, with whom—after the initial defenses had been established—Roran found himself arguing. Orrin never failed to irritate him; if anyone was going to get them killed, it was him. Roran knew that offending a king was not the healthiest thing to do, but the fool wanted to send a messenger to the front gates of Urû’baen and issue a formal challenge, the way they had at Dras-Leona and Belatona.
“Do you want to provoke Galbatorix?” Roran growled. “If we do that, he might respond!”
“Well, of course,” said King Orrin, drawing himself upright. “It’s only proper that we announce our intentions and provide him with the opportunity to parley for peace.”
Roran stared; then he turned away in disgust and said to Jörmundur, “Can’t you make him see reason?”
The three of them were gathered in Orrin’s pavilion, where the king had summoned them.
“Your Majesty,” said Jörmundur, “Roran is right. It would be best to wait to contact the Empire.”
“But they can see us,” protested Orrin. “We’re camped right outside their walls. It would be … rude not to send an envoy to state our position. You are both commoners; I would not expect you to understand. Royalty demands certain courtesies, even if we are at war.”
An urge to strike the king swept through Roran. “Are you so puffed up as to believe Galbatorix considers you an equal? Bah! We’re insects to him. He cares nothing for your courtesy. You forget, Galbatorix was a commoner like us before he overthrew the Riders. His ways are not your ways. There is no one like him in the world, and you think to predict him? You think to placate him? Bah!”
Orrin’s face colored, and he threw aside his goblet of wine, dashing it against the rug upon the ground. “You go too far, Stronghammer. No man has the right to insult me like that.”
“I have the right to do whatever I want,” growled Roran. “I’m not one of your subjects. I don’t answer to you. I’m a free man, and I’ll insult anyone I choose, whenever I choose, however I choose—even you. It would be a mistake to send that messenger, and I—”
There was a screech of sliding steel as King Orrin tore his sword from its scabbard. He did not catch Roran entirely unawares; Roran already had his hand on his hammer, and as he heard the sound, he yanked the weapon from his belt.
The king’s blade was a silver blur in the dim light of the tent. Roran saw where Orrin was going to strike and stepped out of the way. Then he rapped the flat of the king’s sword, causing it to flex and ring and leap out of Orrin’s hand.
The jeweled weapon fell onto the rug, the blade quivering.
“Sire,” cried one of the guards outside. “Are you all right?”
“I just dropped my shield,” replied Jörmundur. “There’s no need for concern.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
Roran stared at the king; there was a wild, hunted look on Orrin’s face. Without taking his eyes off him, Roran returned his hammer to his belt. “Contacting Galbatorix is stupid and dangerous. If you try, I’ll kill whomever you send before he reaches the city.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” said Orrin.
“I would, and I will. I won’t let you endanger the rest of us just to satisfy your royal … pride. If Galbatorix wants to talk, then he knows where to find us. Otherwise, let him be.”
Roran stormed out of the pavilion. Outside, he stood with his hands on his hips and gazed at the puffy clouds while he waited for his pulse to subside. Orrin was like a yearling mule: stubborn, overconfident, and all too willing to kick you in the gut if you gave him the opportunity.
And he drinks too much, thought Roran.
He paced in front of the pavilion until Jörmundur emerged. Before the other man could speak, Roran said, “I’m sorry.”
“As well you should be.” Jörmundur drew a hand over his face, then removed a clay pipe from the purse on his belt and began to fill it with cardus weed, which he tamped down with the ball of his thumb. “It took me this whole time to convince him not to send an envoy just to spite you.” He paused for a moment. “Would you really kill one of Orrin’s men?”
“I don’t make idle threats,” said Roran.
“No, I didn’t think so. … Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Jörmundur started down the path between the tents, and Roran followed. As they walked, men moved out of their way and respectfully dipped their heads. Gesturing with his unlit pipe, Jörmundur said, “I admit, I’ve wanted to give Orrin a good tongue-lashing on more than one occasion.” His lips stretched in a thin smile. “Unfortunately, discretion has always gotten the better of me.”
“Has he always been so … intractable?”
br /> “Hmm? No, no. In Surda, he was far more reasonable.”
“What happened, then?”
“Fear, I think. It does strange things to men.”
“Aye.”
“It may offend you to hear this, but you acted rather stupidly yourself.”
“I know. My temper got the better of me.”
“And you’ve earned yourself a king as a foe.”
“You mean another king.”
Jörmundur uttered a low laugh. “Yes, well, I suppose when you have Galbatorix as a personal enemy, all others seem rather harmless. Nevertheless …” He stopped by a campfire and pulled a thin burning branch from the midst of the flames. Tipping the end of the branch into the bowl of his pipe, he puffed several times, setting the flame, then threw the branch back into the fire. “Nevertheless, I wouldn’t ignore Orrin’s anger. He was willing to kill you back there. If he holds a grudge, and I think he will, he may seek his revenge. I’ll post a guard by your tent for the next few days. After that, though …” Jörmundur shrugged.
“After that, we may all be dead or enslaved.”
They walked in silence for a few more minutes, Jörmundur puffing on his pipe the whole while. As they were about to part, Roran said, “When you see Orrin next …”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you can let him know that if he or his men hurt Katrina, I’ll rip out his guts in front of the whole camp.”
Jörmundur tucked his chin against his breast and stood thinking for a moment, then he looked up and nodded. “I think I might find a way to do that, Stronghammer.”
“My thanks.”
“You’re most welcome. As always, this was a unique pleasure.”
“Sir.”
Roran sought out Katrina and convinced her to bring their dinner to the northern embankment, where he kept vigil for any messengers Orrin might send. They ate on a cloth that Katrina spread over the freshly turned soil, then sat together as the shadows grew long and the stars began to appear in the purple sky above the overhang.
“I’m glad to be here,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“Are you? Really?”
“It’s beautiful, and I have you all to myself.” She squeezed his arm.
He drew her closer, but the shadow in his heart remained. He could not forget the danger that threatened her and their child. The knowledge that their greatest foe was but a few miles distant burned within him; he wanted nothing more than to leap up, run to Urû’baen, and kill Galbatorix.
But that was impossible, so he smiled and laughed and hid his fear, even as he knew she hid hers.
Blast it, Eragon, he thought, you’d better hurry, or I swear I’ll haunt you from the grave.
WAR COUNCIL
ON THE FLIGHT from Vroengard to Urû’baen, Saphira did not have to battle her way through a storm and was fortunate enough to have a tailwind to speed her progress, for the Eldunarí told her where to find the fast-moving stream of air, which they said blew nearly every day of the year. Also, the Eldunarí fed her a constant supply of energy, so she never flagged or grew tired.
As a result, the city first came into sight on the horizon a mere two days after they departed the island.
Twice during the trip, when the sun was at its brightest, Eragon thought he glimpsed the entrance to the pocket of space where the Eldunarí floated hidden behind Saphira. It appeared as a single dark point, so small that he could not keep his eyes fixed upon it for more than a second. At first he assumed it was a mote of dust, but then he noticed that the point never varied in its distance from Saphira, and when he saw it, it was always in the same place.
As they flew, the dragons had, through Umaroth, poured memory after memory into Eragon and Saphira: a cascade of experiences—battles won and battles lost, loves, hates, spells, events witnessed throughout the land, regrets, realizations, and ponderings concerning the workings of the world. The dragons possessed thousands of years of knowledge, and they seemed driven to share every last bit.
It’s too much! Eragon had protested. We can’t remember it all, much less understand it.
No, said Umaroth. But you can remember some, and it may be that some will be what you need to defeat Galbatorix. Now, let us continue.
The torrent of information was overwhelming; at times Eragon felt as if he was forgetting who he was, for the dragons’ memories far outnumbered his own. When that happened, he would separate his mind from theirs and repeat his true name to himself until he again felt secure in his identity.
The things he and Saphira learned amazed and troubled him and oftentimes caused him to question his own beliefs. But he never had time to dwell on such thoughts, for there was always another memory to take their place. It would, he knew, take him years to begin to make sense of what the dragons were showing them.
The more he learned about the dragons, the more he regarded them with awe. Those who had lived for hundreds of years were strange in their ways of thinking, and the oldest were as different from Glaedr and Saphira as Glaedr and Saphira were from the Fanghur in the Beor Mountains. Interacting with these elders was confusing and unsettling; they made jumps, associations, and comparisons that seemed meaningless but that Eragon knew made sense at some deep level. He was rarely able to figure out what they were trying to say, and the ancient dragons did not deign to explain themselves in terms that he could understand.
After a while, he realized that they couldn’t express themselves in any other way. Over the centuries, their minds had changed; what was simple and straightforward for him often seemed complicated for them, and the same was true in reverse. Listening to their thoughts, he felt, must be like listening to the thoughts of a god.
When he made that particular observation, Saphira snorted and said to him, There is a difference.
What?
Unlike gods, we take part in the events of the world.
Perhaps the gods choose to act without being seen.
Then what good are they?
You believe that dragons are better than gods? he asked, amused.
When we are fully grown, yes. What creature is greater than us? Even Galbatorix depends upon us for his strength.
What of the Nïdhwal?
She sniffed. We can swim, but they cannot fly.
The very oldest of the Eldunarí, a dragon by the name of Valdr—which meant “ruler” in the ancient language—spoke to them directly only once. From him, they received a vision of beams of light turning into waves of sand, as well as a disconcerting sense that everything that seemed solid was mostly empty space. Then Valdr showed them a nest of sleeping starlings, and Eragon could feel their dreams flickering in their minds, fast as the blink of an eye. At first Valdr’s emotion was one of contempt—the starlings’ dreams seemed tiny, petty, and inconsequential—but then his mood changed and became warm and sympathetic, and even the smallest of the starlings’ concerns grew in importance until it seemed equal to the worries of kings.
Valdr lingered over the vision, as if to make sure that Eragon and Saphira would remember it amid all the other memories. Yet neither of them was certain what the dragon was trying to say, and Valdr refused to explain himself further.
When at last Urû’baen came into view, the Eldunarí ceased sharing their memories with Eragon and Saphira, and Umaroth said, Now you would be best served by studying the lair of our foe.
This they did as Saphira descended toward the ground over the course of many leagues. What they saw did not encourage either of them, nor did their moods improve when Glaedr said, Galbatorix has built much since he drove us from this place. The walls were not so thick nor so tall in our day.
To which Umaroth added: Nor was Ilirea this heavily fortified during the war between our kind and the elves. The traitor has burrowed deep and piled a mountain of stone about his hole. He will not come out of his own accord, I think. He is like a badger who has retreated into his den and who will bloody the nose of anyone who tries to dig him out.
> A mile southwest from the walled shelf and the city beneath lay the Varden’s camp. It was significantly larger than Eragon remembered, which puzzled him until he realized that Queen Islanzadí and her army must have finally joined forces with the Varden. He gave a small sigh of relief. Even Galbatorix was wary of the might of the elves.
When he and Saphira were a league or so from the tents, the Eldunarí helped Eragon extend the range of his thoughts until he was able to feel the minds of the men, dwarves, elves, and Urgals gathered within the camp. His touch was too light for anyone to notice unless they were deliberately watching for it, and the moment he located the distinctive strain of wild music that marked Blödhgarm’s thoughts, he narrowed his focus to the elf alone.
Blödhgarm, he said. It is I, Eragon. The more formal phrasing seemed natural to him after so long spent reliving experiences from ages past.
Shadeslayer! Are you safe? Your mind feels most strange. Is Saphira with you? Is she hurt? Has something happened to Glaedr?
They are both well, as am I.
Then—Blödhgarm’s confusion was evident.
Cutting him off, Eragon said, We’re not far, but I’ve hidden us from sight for the time being. Is the illusion of Saphira and me still visible to those below?
Yes, Shadeslayer. We have Saphira circling the tents a mile above. Sometimes we hide her in a bank of clouds, or we make it seem as if you and she have gone off on patrol, but we dare not let Galbatorix think you’ve left for long. We will make your images fly away now, so that you may rejoin us without arousing suspicion.
No. Rather, wait and maintain your spells for a while longer.