Eldest [en]

know? Does Oromis know?... Why didn’t they tell me? He remembered, then, Angela predicting that someone in his family would betray him. She was right.

Murtagh merely shook his head and repeated his words in the ancient language, then put his lips to Eragon’s ear and whispered, “You and I, we are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can’t deny it.”

“You’re wrong,” growled Eragon, struggling against the spell. “We’re nothing alike. I don’t have a scar on my back anymore.”

Murtagh recoiled as if he had been stung, his face going hard and cold. He lifted Zar’roc and held it upright before his chest. “So be it. I take my inheritance from you, brother. Farewell.”

Then he retrieved his helm from the ground and pulled himself onto Thorn. Not once did he look at Eragon as the dragon crouched, raised its wings, and flew off the plateau and into the north. Only after Thorn vanished below the horizon did the web of magic release Eragon and Saphira.

Saphira’s talons clicked on the stone as she landed. She crawled over to Eragon and touched him on the arm with her snout. Are you all right, little one?

I’m fine. But he was not, and she knew it.

Walking to the edge of the plateau, Eragon surveyed the Burning Plains and the aftermath of the battle, for the battle was over. With the death of the Twins, the Varden and dwarves regained lost ground and were able to rout the formations of confused soldiers, herding them into the river or chasing them back from whence they came.

Though the bulk of their forces remained intact, the Empire had sounded the retreat, no doubt to regroup and prepare for a second attempt to invade Surda. In their wake, they left piles of tangled corpses from both sides of the conflict, enough men and dwarves to populate an entire city. Thick black smoke roiled off the bodies that had fallen into the peat fires.

Now that the fighting had subsided, the hawks and eagles, the crows and ravens, descended like a shroud over the field.

Eragon closed his eyes, tears leaking from under the lids.

They had won, but he had lost.

REUNION

Eragon and Saphira picked their way between the corpses that littered the Burning Plains, moving slowly on account of their wounds and their exhaustion. They encountered other survivors staggering through the scorched battlefield, hollow-eyed men who looked without truly seeing, their gazes focused somewhere in the distance.

Now that his bloodlust had subsided, Eragon felt nothing but sorrow. The fighting seemed so pointless to him. What a tragedy that so many must die to thwart a single madman. He paused to sidestep a thicket of arrows planted in the mud and noticed the gash on Saphira’s tail where Thorn had bitten her, as well as her other injuries. Here, lend me your strength; I’ll heal you.

Tend to those in mortal danger first.

Are you sure?

Quite sure, little one.

Acquiescing, he bent down and mended a soldier’s torn neck before moving on to one of the Varden. He made no distinction between friend and foe, treating both to the limit of his abilities.

Eragon was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he paid little attention to his work. He wished he could repudiate Murtagh’s claim, but everything Murtagh had said about his mother — their mother — coincided with the few things Eragon knew about her: Selena left Carvahall twenty-some years ago, returned once to give birth to Eragon, and was never seen again. His mind darted back to when he and Murtagh first arrived in Farthen Dur. Murtagh had discussed how his mother had vanished from Morzan’s castle while Morzan was hunting Brom, Jeod, and Saphira’s egg. After Morzan threw Zar’roc at Murtagh and nearly killed him, Mother must have hidden her pregnancy and then gone back to Carvahall in order to protect me from Morzan and Galbatorix.

It heartened Eragon to know that Selena had cared for him so deeply. It also grieved him to know she was dead and they would never meet, for he had nurtured the hope, faint as it was, that his parents might still be alive. He no longer harbored any desire to be acquainted with his father, but he bitterly resented that he had been deprived of the chance to have a relationship with his mother.

Ever since he was old enough to understand that he was a fosterling, Eragon had wondered who his father was and why his mother left him to be raised by her brother, Garrow, and his wife, Marian. Those answers had been thrust upon him from such an unexpected source, and in such an unpropitious setting, it was more than he could make sense of at the moment. It would take months, if not years, to come to terms with the revelation.

Eragon always assumed he would be glad to learn the identity of his father. Now that he had, the knowledge revolted him. When he was younger, he often entertained himself by imagining that his father was someone grand and important, though Eragon knew the opposite was far more likely. Still, it never occurred to him, even in his most extravagant daydreams, that he might be the son of a Rider, much less one of the Forsworn.

It turned a daydream into a nightmare.

I was sired by a monster... My father was the one who betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix. It left Eragon feeling sullied.

But no... As he healed a man’s broken spine, a new way of viewing the situation occurred to him, one that restored a measure of his self-confidence: Morzan may be my parent, but he is not my father. Garrow was my father. He raised me. He taught me how to live well and honorably, with integrity. I am who I am because of him. Even Brom and Oromis are more my father than Morzan. And Roran is my brother, not Murtagh.

Eragon nodded, determined to maintain that outlook. Until then, he had refused to completely accept Garrow as his father. And even though Garrow was dead, doing so relieved Eragon, gave him a sense of closure, and helped to ameliorate his distress over Morzan.

You have grown wise, observed Saphira.

Wise? He shook his head. No, I’ve just learned how to think. That much, at least, Oromis gave me. Eragon wiped a layer of dirt off the face of a fallen banner boy, making sure he really was dead, then straightened, wincing as his muscles spasmed in protest. You realize, don’t you, that Brom must have known about this. Why else would he choose to hide in Carvahall while he waited for you to hatch?... He wanted to keep an eye upon his enemy’s son. It unsettled him to think that Brom might have considered him a threat. And he was right too. Look what ended up happening to me!

Saphira ruffled his hair with a gust of her hot breath. Just remember, whatever Brom’s reasons, he always tried to protect us from danger. He died saving you from the Ra’zac.

I know... Do you think he didn’t tell me about this because he was afraid I might emulate Morzan, like Murtagh has?

Of course not.

He looked at her, curious. How can you be so certain? She lifted her head high above him and refused to meet his eyes or to answer. Have it your way, then. Kneeling by one of King Orrin’s men, who had an arrow through the gut, Eragon grabbed his arms to stop him from writhing. “Easy now.”

“Water,” groaned the man. “For pity’s sake, water. My throat is as dry as sand. Please, Shadeslayer.” Sweat beaded his face.

Eragon smiled, trying to comfort him. “I can give you a drink now, but it’d be better if you wait until after I heal you. Can you wait? If you do, I promise you can have all the water you want.”

“You promise, Shadeslayer?”

“I promise.”

The man visibly struggled against another wave of agony before saying, “If I must.”

With the aid of magic, Eragon drew out the shaft, then he and Saphira worked to repair the man’s innards,