everyone until he heard a sibilant voice from around a house. Although his ears were keen, he had to strain to hear what was being said.
“When did this happen?” The words were smooth, like oiled glass, and seemed to worm their way through the air. Underlying the speech was a strange hiss that made his scalp prickle.
“About three months ago,” someone else answered. Eragon identified him as Sloan.
A third person spoke. The voice was deep and moist. It conjured up images of creeping decay, mold, and other things best left untouched. “Are you sure? We would hate to think you had made a mistake. If that were so, it would be most... unpleasant.” Eragon could imagine only too well what they might do. Would anyone but the Empire dare threaten people like that? Probably not, but whoever sent the egg might be powerful enough to use force with impunity.
“Yeah, I’m sure. He had it then. I’m not lying. Plenty of people know about it. Go ask them.” Sloan sounded shaken. He said something else that Eragon did not catch.
“They have been... rather uncooperative.” The words were derisive. There was a pause. “Your information has been helpful. We will not forget you.” Eragon believed him.
Sloan muttered something, then Eragon heard someone hurrying away. He peered around the corner to see what was happening. Two tall men stood in the street. Both were dressed in long black cloaks that were lifted by sheaths poking past their legs. On their shirts were insignias intricately wrought with silver thread. Hoods shaded their faces, and their hands were covered by gloves. Their backs were oddly humped, as though their clothes were stuffed with padding.
Eragon shifted slightly to get a better view. One of the strangers stiffened and grunted peculiarly to his companion. They both swiveled around and sank into crouches. Eragon’s breath caught. Mortal fear clenched him. His eyes locked onto their hidden faces, and a stifling power fell over his mind, keeping him in place. He struggled against it and screamed to himself,
“Eragon!” He jerked as his name was called. The strangers froze in place and hissed. Brom hurried toward him from the side, head bare and staff in hand. The strangers were blocked from the old man’s view. Eragon tried to warn him, but his tongue and arms would not stir. “Eragon!” cried Brom again. The strangers gave Eragon one last look, then slipped away between the houses.
Eragon collapsed to the ground, shivering. Sweat beaded on his forehead and made his palms sticky. The old man offered Eragon a hand and pulled him up with a strong arm. “You look sick; is all well?”
Eragon gulped and nodded mutely. His eyes flickered around, searching for anything unusual. “I just got dizzy all of a sudden... it’s passed. It was very odd — I don’t know why it happened.”
“You’ll recover,” said Brom, “but perhaps it would be better if you went home.”
“Then home is the best place for you. It’s a long walk, but I’m sure you will feel better by the time you arrive. Let me escort you to the road.” Eragon did not protest as Brom took his arm and led him away at a quick pace. Brom’s staff crunched in the snow as they passed the houses.
“Why were you looking for me?”
Brom shrugged. “Simple curiosity. I learned you were in town and wondered if you had remembered the name of that trader.”
Brom sighed gruffly, as if something had been confirmed, and rubbed his eagle nose. “Well, then... if you do, come tell me. I am most interested in this trader who pretends to know so much about dragons.” Eragon nodded with a distracted air. They walked in silence to the road, then Brom said, “Hasten home. I don’t think it would be a good idea to tarry on the way.” He offered a gnarled hand.
Eragon shook it, but as he let go something in Brom’s hand caught on his mitt and pulled it off. It fell to the ground. The old man picked it up. “Clumsy of me,” he apologized, and handed it back. As Eragon took the mitt, Brom’s strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and twisted sharply. His palm briefly faced upward, revealing the silvery mark. Brom’s eyes glinted, but he let Eragon yank his hand back and jam it into the mitt.
“Goodbye,” Eragon forced out, perturbed, and hurried down the road. Behind him he heard Brom whistling a merry tune.
FLIGHT OF DESTINY
Eragon’s mind churned as he sped on his way. He ran as fast as he could, refusing to stop even when his breath came in great gasps. As he pounded down the cold road, he cast out with his mind for Saphira, but she was too far away for him to contact. He thought about what to say to Garrow. There was no choice now; he would have to reveal Saphira.
He arrived home, panting for air and heart pounding. Garrow stood by the barn with the horses. Eragon hesitated.
He touched her shoulder and closed his eyes. Calming his mind, he quickly told her what had occurred. When he mentioned the strangers, Saphira recoiled. She reared and roared deafeningly, then whipped her tail over his head. He scrambled back in surprise, ducking as her tail hit a snowdrift. Bloodlust and fear emanated from her in great sickening waves.
Frantic, he blocked out Saphira’s emotions and watched her tail. When it flicked past him, he dashed to her side and grabbed a spike on her back. Clutching it, he pulled himself into the small hollow at the base of her neck and held on tightly as she reared again. “Enough, Saphira!” he bellowed. Her stream of thoughts ceased abruptly. He ran a hand over her scales. “Everything’s going to be all right.” She crouched and her wings rushed upward. They hung there for an instant, then drove down as she flung herself into the sky.
Eragon yelled as the ground dropped away and they rose above the trees. Turbulence buffeted him, snatching the breath out of his mouth. Saphira ignored his terror and banked toward the Spine. Underneath, he glimpsed the farm and the Anora River. His stomach convulsed. He tightened his arms around Saphira’s neck and concentrated on the scales in front of his nose, trying not to vomit as she continued to climb. When she leveled off, he gained the courage to glance around.
The air was so cold that frost accumulated on his eyelashes. They had reached the mountains faster than he thought possible. From the air, the peaks looked like giant razor-sharp teeth waiting to slash them to ribbons. Saphira wobbled unexpectedly, and Eragon heaved over her side. He wiped his lips, tasting bile, and buried his head against her neck.
