Eldest [en]

letters, but at last he understood that it said:

Greetings, Saphira Bjartskular and Eragon Shadeslayer.

I, Bellaen of House Miolandra, do humble myself and apologize to you, Saphira, for this unsatisfactory meal. Elves do not hunt, and no meat is to be had in Ellesmera, nor in any of our cities. If you wish, you can do as the dragons of old were wont, and catch what you may in Du Weldenvarden. We only ask that you leave your kills in the forest so that our air and water remain untainted by blood.

Eragon, these clothes are for you. They were woven by Niduen of Islanzadi’s house and are her gift to you.

May good fortune rule over you,

Peace live in your heart,

And the stars watch over you.

Bellaen du Hljodhr

When Eragon told Saphira the message, she said, It does not matter; I won’t need to eat for a while after yesterday’s meal. However, she did snap up a few seed cakes. Just so that I don’t appear rude, she explained.

After Eragon finished breakfast, he hauled the bundle of clothes onto his bed and carefully unfolded them, finding two full-length tunics of russet trimmed with thimbleberry green, a set of creamy leggings to wrap his calves in, and three pairs of socks so soft, they felt like liquid when he pulled them through his hands. The quality of the fabric shamed the weaving of the women of Carvahall as well as the dwarf clothes he wore now.

Eragon was grateful for the new raiment. His own tunic and breeches were sadly travel-worn from their weeks exposed to the rain and sun since Farthen Dur. Stripping, he donned one of the luxurious tunics, savoring its downy texture.

He had just laced on his boots when someone knocked on the screen to the bedroom. “Come in,” he said, reaching for Zar’roc.

Orik poked his head inside, then cautiously entered, testing the floor with his feet. He eyed the ceiling. “Give me a cave any day instead of a bird’s nest like this. How fared your night, Eragon? Saphira?”

“Well enough. And yours?” said Eragon.

“I slept like a rock.” The dwarf chuckled at his own jest, then his chin sank into his beard and he fingered the head of his ax. “I see you’ve eaten, so I’ll ask you to accompany me. Arya, the queen, and a host of other elves await you at the base of the tree.” He fixed Eragon with a testy gaze. “Something is going on that they haven’t told us about. I’m not sure what they want from you, but it’s important. Islanzadi’s as tense as a cornered wolf... I thought I’d warn you beforehand.”

Eragon thanked him, then the two of them descended by way of the stairs, while Saphira glided to earth. They were met on the ground by Islanzadi arrayed in a mantle of ruffled swan feathers, which were like winter snow heaped upon a cardinal’s breast. She greeted them and said, “Follow me.”

Her wending course took the group to the edge of Ellesmera, where the buildings were few and the paths were faint from disuse. At the base of a wooded knoll, Islanzadi stopped and said in a terrible voice, “Before we go any farther, the three of you must swear in the ancient language that you will never speak to outsiders of what you are about to see, not without permission from me, my daughter, or whoever may succeed us to the throne.”

“Why should I gag myself?” demanded Orik.

Why indeed? asked Saphira. Do you not trust us?

“It is not a matter of trust, but of safety. We must protect this knowledge at all costs — it’s our greatest advantage over Galbatorix — and if you are bound by the ancient language, you will never willingly reveal our secret. You came to supervise Eragon’s training, Orik-vodhr. Unless you give me your word, you may as well return to Farthen Dur.”

At last Orik said, “I believe that you mean no harm to dwarves or to the Varden, else I would never agree. And I hold you to the honor of your hall and clan that this isn’t a ploy to deceive us. Tell me what to say.”

While the queen tutored Orik in the correct pronunciation of the desired phrase, Eragon asked Saphira, Should I do it?

Do we have a choice? Eragon remembered that Arya had asked the same question yesterday, and he began to have an inkling of what she had meant: the queen left no room to maneuver.

When Orik finished, Islanzadi looked expectantly at Eragon. He hesitated, then delivered the oath, as did Saphira. “Thank you,” said Islanzadi. “Now we may proceed.”

At the top of the knoll, the trees were replaced by a bed of red clover that ran several yards to the edge of a stone cliff. The cliff extended a league in either direction and dropped a thousand feet to the forest below, which pooled outward until it merged with the sky. It felt as if they stood on the edge of the world, staring across an endless expanse of forest.

I know this place, realized Eragon, remembering his vision of Togira Ikonoka.

Thud. The air shivered from the strength of the concussion. Thud. Another dull blow made Eragon’s teeth chatter. Thud. He jammed his fingers in his ears, trying to protect them from the painful spikes in pressure. The elves stood motionless. Thud. The clover bent under a sudden gust of wind.

Thud. From below the edge of the cliff rose a huge gold dragon with a Rider on its back.

CONVICTION

Roran glared at Horst.

They were in Baldor’s room. Roran was propped upright in bed, listening as the smith said, “What did you expect me to do? We couldn’t attack once you fainted. Besides, the men were in no state to fight. Can’t blame them either. I nearly bit off my tongue when I saw those monsters.” Horst shook his wild mane of hair. “We’ve been dragged into one of the old tales, Roran, and I don’t like it one bit.” Roran retained his stony expression. “Look, you can kill the soldiers if you want, but you have to get your strength back first. You’ll have plenty of volunteers; people trust you in battle, especially after you defeated the soldiers here last night.” When Roran remained silent, Horst sighed, patted him on his good shoulder, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Roran did not even blink. So far in his life, he had only truly cared about three things: his family, his home in Palancar Valley, and Katrina. His family had been annihilated last year. His farm had been smashed and burned, though the land remained, which was all that really mattered.

But now Katrina was gone.

A choked sob escaped past the iron lump in his throat. He was faced with a quandary that tore at his very essence: the only way to rescue Katrina would be to somehow pursue the Ra’zac and leave Palancar Valley, yet he could not abandon Carvahall to the soldiers. Nor could he forget Katrina.

My heart or my home, he thought bitterly. They were worthless without each other. If he killed the soldiers it would only prevent the Ra’zac — and perhaps Katrina — from returning. Anyway, the slaughter would be pointless if reinforcements were nearby, for their arrival would surely signal Carvahall’s demise.

Roran clenched his teeth as a fresh burst of pain emanated from his bound shoulder. He closed his eyes. I hope Sloan gets eaten like Quimby. No fate could be too terrible for that traitor. Roran cursed him with the blackest oaths he knew.

Even if I were free to leave Carvahall, how could I find the Ra’zac? Who would know where they live? Who would dare inform on Galbatorix’s servants? Despair rolled over him as he wrestled with the problem. He imagined himself in one of the great cities of the Empire, searching aimlessly among dirty buildings and hordes of strangers for a hint, a glimpse, a taste of his love.

It was hopeless.

A river of tears followed as he doubled over, groaning from the strength of his agony and fear. He rocked