they are not human and tire much more slowly than we do.”

“Is there any way to become their equal?” asked Eragon. He sat cross-legged by Saphira.

You fought well, she said. He smiled.

Brom seated himself with a shrug. “There are a few, but none are available to you now. Magic will let you defeat all but the strongest enemies. For those you’ll need Saphira’s help, plus a great deal of luck. Remember, when creatures of magic actually use magic, they can accomplish things that could kill a human, because of their enhanced abilities.”

“How do you fight with magic?” asked Eragon.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, leaning on an elbow. “Suppose I was attacked by a Shade. How could I block his magic? Most spells take place instantaneously, which makes it impossible to react in time. And even if I could, how would I nullify an enemy’s magic? It seems I would have to know my opponent’s intention before he acted.” He paused. “I just don’t see how it can be done. Whoever attacked first would win.”

Brom sighed. “What you are talking about — a ‘wizards’ duel,’ if you will — is extremely dangerous. Haven’t you ever wondered how Galbatorix was able to defeat all of the Riders with the help of only a dozen or so traitors?”

“I never thought about it,” acknowledged Eragon.

“There are several ways. Some you’ll learn about later, but the main one is that Galbatorix was, and still is, a master of breaking into people’s minds. You see, in a wizards’ duel there are strict rules that each side must observe or else both contestants will die. To begin with, no one uses magic until one of the participants gains access to the other’s mind.”

Saphira curled her tail comfortably around Eragon and asked, Why wait? By the time an enemy realizes that you’ve attacked, it will be too late for him to act. Eragon repeated the question out loud.

Brom shook his head. “No, it won’t. If I were to suddenly use my power against you, Eragon, you would surely die, but in the brief moment before you were destroyed, there would be time for a counterattack. Therefore, unless one combatant has a death wish, neither side attacks until one of them has breached the other’s defenses.”

“Then what happens?” Eragon inquired.

Brom shrugged and said, “Once you’re inside your enemy’s mind, it’s easy enough to anticipate what he will do and prevent it. Even with that advantage, it’s still possible to lose if you don’t know how to counteract spells.”

He filled and lit his pipe. “And that requires extraordinarily quick thinking. Before you can defend yourself, you have to understand the exact nature of the forces directed at you. If you’re being attacked with heat, you have to know whether it is being conveyed to you through air, fire, light, or some other medium. Only once that’s known can you combat the magic by, for instance, chilling the heated material.”

“It sounds difficult.”

“Extremely,” confirmed Brom. A plume of smoke rose from his pipe. “Seldom can people survive such a duel for more than a few seconds. The enormous amount of effort and skill required condemns anyone without the proper training to a quick death. Once you’ve progressed, I’ll start teaching you the necessary methods. In the meantime, if you ever find yourself facing a wizards’ duel, I suggest you run away as fast as you can.”

THE MIRE OF DRAS-LEONA

They lunched at Fasaloft, a bustling lakeside village. It was a charming place set on a rise overlooking the lake. As they ate in the hostel’s common room, Eragon listened intently to the gossip and was relieved to hear no rumors of him and Saphira.

The trail, now a road, had grown steadily worse over the past two days. Wagon wheels and iron-shod hooves had conspired to tear up the ground, making many sections impassable. An increase in travelers forced Saphira to hide during the day and then catch up with Brom and Eragon at night.

For days they continued south along Leona Lake’s vast shore. Eragon began to wonder if they would ever get around it, so he was heartened when they met men who said that Dras-Leona was an easy day’s ride ahead of them.

Eragon rose early the following morning. His fingers twitched with anticipation at the thought of finally finding the Ra’zac. The two of you must be careful, said Saphira. The Ra’zac could have spies watching for travelers that fit your description.

We’ll do our best to remain inconspicuous, he assured her.

She lowered her head until their eyes met. Perhaps, but realize that I won’t be able to protect you as I did with the Urgals. I will be too far away to come to your aid, nor would I survive long in the narrow streets your kind favor. Follow Brom’s lead in this hunt; he is sensible.

I know, he said somberly.

Will you go with Brom to the Varden? Once the Ra’zac are killed, he will want to take you to them. And since Galbatorix will be enraged by the Ra’zac’s death, that may be the safest thing for us to do.

Eragon rubbed his arms. I don’t want to fight the Empire all the time like the Varden do. Life is more than constant war. There’ll be time to consider it once the Ra’zac are gone.

Don’t be too sure, she warned, then went to hide herself until night.

The road was clogged with farmers taking their goods to market in Dras-Leona. Brom and Eragon were forced to slow their horses and wait for wagons that blocked the way.

Although they saw smoke in the distance before noon, it was another league before the city was clearly visible. Unlike Teirm, a planned city, Dras-Leona was a tangled mess that sprawled next to Leona Lake. Ramshackle buildings sat on crooked streets, and the heart of the city was surrounded by a dirty, pale yellow wall of daubed mud.

Several miles east, a mountain of bare rock speared the sky with spires and columns, a tenebrous nightmare ship. Near-vertical sides rose out of the ground like a jagged piece of the earth’s bone.

Brom pointed. “That is Helgrind. It’s the reason Dras-Leona was originally built. People are fascinated by it, even though it’s an unhealthy and malevolent thing.” He gestured at the buildings inside the city’s wall. “We should go to the center of the city first.”

As they crept along the road to Dras-Leona, Eragon saw that the highest building within the city was a cathedral that loomed behind the walls. It was strikingly similar to Helgrind, especially when its arches and flanged spires caught the light. “Who do they worship?” he asked.

Brom grimaced in distaste. “Their prayers go to Helgrind. It’s a cruel religion they practice. They drink human blood and make flesh offerings. Their priests often lack body parts because they believe that the more bone and sinew you give up, the less you’re attached to the mortal world. They spend much of their time arguing about which of Helgrind’s three peaks is the highest and most important and whether the fourth — and lowest — should be included in their worship.”

“That’s horrible,” said Eragon, shuddering.

“Yes,” said Brom grimly, “but don’t say that to a believer. You’ll quickly lose a hand in ‘penance.’ ”

At Dras-Leona’s enormous gates, they led the horses through the crush of people. Ten soldiers were stationed on either side of the gates, casually scanning the crowd. Eragon and Brom passed into the city without incident.

The houses inside the city wall were tall and thin to compensate for the lack of space. Those next to the wall were braced against it. Most of the houses hung over the narrow, winding streets, covering the sky so that it was hard to tell if it was night or day. Nearly all the buildings were constructed of the same rough brown wood, which darkened the city even more. The air reeked like a sewer; the streets were filthy.

A group of ragged children ran between the houses, fighting over scraps of bread. Deformed beggars

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