Eldest [en]

“How many of them are there?” growled Orik. “It looked a mighty number from Saphira’s back.”

“Aye. We estimate Galbatorix mustered as many as a hundred thousand soldiers.”

Eragon could not contain himself: “A hundred thousand! Where did they come from? It seems impossible that he could find more than a handful of people willing to serve him.”

“They were conscripted. We can only hope that the men who were torn from their homes won’t be eager to fight. If we can frighten them badly enough, they may break ranks and flee. Our numbers are greater than in Farthen Dur, for King Orrin has joined forces with us and we have received a veritable flood of volunteers since we began to spread the word about you, Eragon, although we are still far weaker than the Empire.”

Then Saphira asked, and Eragon was forced to repeat the dreadful question: What do you think our chances of victory are?

“That,” said Nasuada, putting emphasis on the word, “depends a great deal upon you and Eragon, and the number of magicians seeded throughout their troops. If you can find and destroy those magicians, then our enemies shall be left unprotected and you can slay them at will. Outright victory, I think, is unlikely at this point, but we might be able to hold them at bay until their supplies run low or until Islanzadi can come to our assistance. That is... if Galbatorix doesn’t fly into battle himself. In that case, I fear retreat will be our only option.”

Just then, Eragon felt a strange mind approaching, one that knew he was watching and yet did not shrink from the contact. One that felt cold and hard, calculating. Alert for danger, Eragon turned his gaze toward the rear of the pavilion, where he saw the same black-haired girl who had appeared when he scryed Nasuada from Ellesmera. The girl stared at him with violet eyes, then said, “Welcome, Shadeslayer. Welcome, Saphira.”

Eragon shivered at the sound of her voice, the voice of an adult. He wet his dry mouth and asked, “Who are you?”

Without answering, the girl brushed back her glossy bangs and exposed a silvery white mark on her forehead, exactly like Eragon’s gedwey ignasia. He knew then whom he faced.

No one moved as Eragon went to the girl, accompanied by Saphira, who extended her neck farther into the pavilion. Dropping to one knee, Eragon took the girl’s right hand in his own; her skin burned as if with fever. She did not resist him, but merely left her hand limp in his grip. In the ancient language — and also with his mind, so that she would understand — Eragon said, “I am sorry. Can you forgive me for what I did to you?”

The girl’s eyes softened, and she leaned forward and kissed Eragon upon the brow. “I forgive you,” she whispered, for the first time sounding her age. “How could I not? You and Saphira created who I am, and I know you meant no harm. I forgive you, but I shall let this knowledge torture your conscience: You have condemned me to be aware of all the suffering around me. Even now your spell drives me to rush to the aid of a man not three tents away who just cut his hand, to help the young flag carrier who broke his left index finger in the spokes of a wagon wheel, and to help countless others who have been or are about to be hurt. It costs me dearly to resist those urges, and even more if I consciously cause someone discomfort, as I do by saying this... I cannot even sleep at night for the strength of my compulsion. That is your legacy, O Rider.” By the end, her voice had regained its bitter, mocking edge.

Saphira interposed herself between them and, with her snout, touched the girl in the center of her mark. Peace, Changeling. You have much anger in your heart.

“You don’t have to live like this forever,” said Eragon. “The elves taught me how to undo a spell, and I believe I can free you of this curse. It won’t be easy, but it can be done.”

For a moment, the girl seemed to lose her formidable self-control. A small gasp escaped her lips, her hand trembled against Eragon’s, and her eyes glistened with a film of tears. Then just as quickly, she hid her true emotions behind a mask of cynical amusement. “Well, we shall see. Either way, you shouldn’t try until after this battle.”

“I could save you a great deal of pain.”

“It wouldn’t do to exhaust you when our survival may depend on your talents. I do not deceive myself; you are more important than me.” A sly grin crossed her face. “Besides, if you remove your spell now, I won’t be able to help any of the Varden if they are threatened. You wouldn’t want Nasuada to die because of that, would you?”

“No,” admitted Eragon. He paused for a long time, considering the issue, then said, “Very well, I will wait. But I swear to you: If we win this fight, I shall right this wrong.”

The girl tilted her head to one side. “I will hold you to your word, Rider.”

Rising from her chair, Nasuada said, “Elva was the one who saved me from an assassin in Aberon.”

“Did she? In that case, I am in your debt... Elva... for protecting my liegelord.”

“Come now,” said Nasuada. “I must introduce the three of you to Orrin and his nobles. Have you met the king before, Orik?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I’ve never been this far west.”

As they left the pavilion — Nasuada in the lead, with Elva by her side — Eragon tried to position himself so he could talk with Arya, but when he neared her, she quickened her pace until she was level with Nasuada. Arya never even looked at him while she walked, a slight that caused him more anguish than any physical wound he had endured. Elva glanced back at him, and he knew that she was aware of his distress.

They soon arrived at another large pavilion, this one white and yellow — although it was difficult to determine the exact hue of the colors, given the garish orange that glazed everything on the Burning Plains. Once they were granted entrance, Eragon was astonished to find the tent crammed with an eccentric collection of beakers, alembics, retorts, and other instruments of natural philosophy. Who would bother toting all this onto a battlefield? he wondered, bewildered.

“Eragon,” said Nasuada, “I would like you to meet Orrin, son of Larkin and monarch of the realm of Surda.”

From the depths of the tangled piles of glass emerged a rather tall, handsome man with shoulder-length hair held back by the gold coronet resting upon his head. His mind, like Nasuada’s, was protected behind walls of iron; it was obvious he had received extensive training in that skill. Orrin seemed pleasant enough to Eragon from their discussion, if a bit green and untried when it came to commanding men in war and more than a little odd in the head. On the whole, Eragon trusted Nasuada’s leadership more.

After fending off scores of questions from Orrin about his stay among the elves, Eragon found himself smiling and nodding politely as one earl after another paraded past, each of whom insisted on shaking his hand, telling him what an honor it was to meet a Rider, and inviting him to their respective estates. Eragon dutifully memorized their many names and titles — as he knew Oromis would expect — and did his best to maintain a calm demeanor, despite his growing frustration.

We’re about to engage one of the largest armies in history, and here we are, stuck exchanging pleasantries.

Patience, counseled Saphira. There aren’t that many more... Besides, look at it this way: if we win, they’ll owe us an entire year of free dinners, what with all their promises.

He stifled a chuckle. I think it would dismay them to know what it takes to feed you. Not to mention that you could empty their cellars of beer and wine in a single night.

I would never, she sniffed, then relented. Maybe in two nights.

When at last they won free of Orrin’s pavilion, Eragon asked Nasuada, “What shall I do now? How can I serve you?”

Nasuada eyed him with a curious expression. “How do you think you can best serve me, Eragon? You know your own abilities far better than I do.” Even Arya watched him now, waiting to hear his response.

Eragon gazed up at the bloody sky while he pondered her question. “I shall take control of Du Vrangr Gata, as they once asked me to, and organize them underneath me so I can lead them into battle. Working together will give us the best chance of foiling Galbatorix’s magicians.”

“That seems an excellent idea.”

Is there a place, asked Saphira, where Eragon can leave his bags? I don’t want to carry them or this saddle any longer than I have to.

When Eragon repeated her question, Nasuada said, “Of course. You may leave them in my pavilion, and I will arrange to have a tent erected for you, Eragon, where you can keep them permanently. I suggest, though, that you