sword resumed its normal appearance. Eragon sheathed it, troubled.
Brom raised an eyebrow. “That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. Dragons will constantly amaze you. Things... happen around them, mysterious things that are impossible anywhere else. Even though the Riders worked with dragons for centuries, they never completely understood their abilities. Some say that even the dragons don’t know the full extent of their own powers. They are linked with this land in a way that lets them overcome great obstacles. What Saphira just did illustrates my earlier point: there is much you don’t know.”
There was a long pause. “That may be,” said Eragon, “but I can learn. And the strangers are the most important thing I need to know about right now. Do you have any idea who they are?”
Brom took a deep breath. “They are called the Ra’zac. No one knows if that’s the name of their race or what they have chosen to call themselves. Either way, if they have individual names, they keep them hidden. The Ra’zac were never seen before Galbatorix came to power. He must have found them during his travels and enlisted them in his service. Little or nothing is known about them. However, I can tell you this: they aren’t human. When I glimpsed one’s head, it appeared to have something resembling a beak and black eyes as large as my fist — though how they manage our speech is a mystery to me. Doubtless the rest of their bodies are just as twisted. That is why they cover themselves with cloaks at all times, regardless of the weather.
“As for their powers, they are stronger than any man and can jump incredible heights, but they cannot use magic. Be thankful for that, because if they could, you would already be in their grasp. I also know they have a strong aversion to sunlight, though it won’t stop them if they’re determined. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating a Ra’zac, for they are cunning and full of guile.”
“How many of them are there?” asked Eragon, wondering how Brom could possibly know so much.
“As far as I know, only the two you saw. There might be more, but I’ve never heard of them. Perhaps they’re the last of a dying race. You see, they are the king’s personal dragon hunters. Whenever rumors reach Galbatorix of a dragon in the land, he sends the Ra’zac to investigate. A trail of death often follows them.” Brom blew a series of smoke rings and watched them float up between the brambles. Eragon ignored the rings until he noticed that they were changing color and darting around. Brom winked slyly.
Eragon was sure that no one had seen Saphira, so how could Galbatorix have heard about her? When he voiced his objections, Brom said, “You’re right, it seems unlikely that anyone from Carvahall could have informed the king. Why don’t you tell me where you got the egg and how you raised Saphira — that might clarify the issue.”
Eragon hesitated, then recounted all the events since he had found the egg in the Spine. It felt wonderful to finally confide in someone. Brom asked a few questions, but most of the time he listened intently. The sun was about to set when Eragon finished his tale. Both of them were quiet as the clouds turned a soft pink. Eragon eventually broke the silence. “I just wish I knew where she came from. And Saphira doesn’t remember.”
Brom cocked his head. “I don’t know... You’ve made many things clear to me. I am sure that no one besides us has seen Saphira. The Ra’zac must have had a source of information outside of this valley, one who is probably dead by now... You have had a hard time and done much. I’m impressed.”
Eragon stared blankly into the distance, then asked, “What happened to your head? It looks like you were hit with a rock.”
“No, but that’s a good guess.” He took a deep pull on the pipe. “I was sneaking around the Ra’zac’s camp after dark, trying to learn what I could, when they surprised me in the shadows. It was a good trap, but they underestimated me, and I managed to drive them away. Not, however,” he said wryly, “without this token of my stupidity. Stunned, I fell to the ground and didn’t regain consciousness until the next day. By then they had already arrived at your farm. It was too late to stop them, but I set out after them anyway. That’s when we met on the road.”
Brom sighed. “I was unsure of what to do at the time. I thought I could keep the Ra’zac away from you and, once they had left, confront you about Saphira. But they outsmarted me. It’s a mistake that I deeply regret, and one that has cost you dearly.”
“Who are you?” demanded Eragon, suddenly bitter. “How come a mere village storyteller happens to have a Rider’s sword? How do you know about the Ra’zac?”
Brom tapped his pipe. “I thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to talk about that.”
“My uncle is dead because of this.
For a long time Brom stared at the smoke swirling between them, deep lines creasing his forehead. When he stirred, it was only to take another puff. Finally he said, “You’ve probably never thought about it, but most of my life has been spent outside of Palancar Valley. It was only in Carvahall that I took up the mantle of storyteller. I have played many roles to different people — I’ve a complicated past. It was partly through a desire to escape it that I came here. So no, I’m not the man you think I am.”
“Ha!” snorted Eragon. “Then who are you?”
Brom smiled gently. “I am one who is here to help you. Do not scorn those words — they are the truest I’ve ever spoken. But I’m not going to answer your questions. At this point you don’t need to hear my history, nor have you yet earned that right. Yes, I have knowledge Brom the storyteller wouldn’t, but I’m more than he. You’ll have to learn to live with that fact and the fact that I don’t hand out descriptions of my life to anyone who asks!”
Eragon glared at him sullenly. “I’m going to sleep,” he said, leaving the fire.
Brom did not seem surprised, but there was sorrow in his eyes. He spread his bedroll next to the fire as Eragon lay beside Saphira. An icy silence fell over the camp.
SADDLE MAKING
When Eragon’s eyes opened, the memory of Garrow’s death crashed down on him. He pulled the blankets over his head and cried quietly under their warm darkness. It felt good just to lie there... to hide from the world outside. Eventually the tears stopped. He cursed Brom. Then he reluctantly wiped his cheeks and got up.
Brom was making breakfast. “Good morning,” he said. Eragon grunted in reply. He jammed his cold fingers in his armpits and crouched by the fire until the food was ready. They ate quickly, trying to consume the food before it lost its warmth. When he finished, Eragon washed his bowl with snow, then spread the stolen leather on the ground.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Brom. “We can’t carry it with us.”
“I’m going to make a saddle for Saphira.”
“Mmm,” said Brom, moving forward. “Well, dragons used to have two kinds of saddles. The first was hard and molded like a horse’s saddle. But those take time and tools to make, neither of which we have. The other was thin and lightly padded, nothing more than an extra layer between the Rider and dragon. Those saddles were used whenever speed and flexibility were important, though they weren’t nearly as comfortable as the molded ones.”
“Do you know what they looked like?” asked Eragon.
“Better, I can make one.”
“Then please do,” said Eragon, standing aside.
“Very well, but pay attention. Someday you may have to do this for yourself.” With Saphira’s permission, Brom measured her neck and chest. Then he cut five bands out of the leather and outlined a dozen or so shapes on the hides. Once the pieces had been sliced out, he cut what remained of the hides into long cords.
Brom used the cords to sew everything together, but for each stitch, two holes had to be bored through the leather. Eragon helped with that. Intricate knots were rigged in place of buckles, and every strap was made extra long so the saddle would still fit Saphira in the coming months.
The main part of the saddle was assembled from three identical sections sewn together with padding
