“Forest wolves big enough to prey on a Nagra and nimble enough to
catch Feldûnost. Cave bears, which we call Urzhadn and the elves call
Beorn and for which they dubbed these peaks, though we do not call
them such ourselves. The mountains’ name is a secret that we share with
no race. And—”
“Smer voth,” commanded Ûndin, smiling at his guests. The servants
immediately drew small curved knives and cut portions of the Nagra,
which they set on everyone’s plates—except for Arya’s— including a
weighty piece for Saphira. Ûndin smiled again, took a dagger, and sliced
off a bit of his meat.
Eragon reached for his own knife, but Orik grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Ûndin chewed slowly, rolling his eyes and nodding in an exaggerated
fashion, then swallowed and proclaimed, “Ilf gauhnith!”
“Now,” said Orik, turning to the meal as conversation erupted along the
tables.
Eragon had never tasted anything like the boar. It was juicy, soft, and
oddly spicy—as if the meat had been soaked in honey and cider—which
was enhanced by the mint used to flavor the pork. I wonder how they
managed to cook something so large.
Very slowly, commented Saphira, nibbling on her Nagra.
Between bites, Orik explained, “It is custom, from days when poisoning
was rampant among clans, for the host to taste the food first and declare
it safe for his guests.”
During the banquet, Eragon divided his time between sampling the
multitude of dishes and conversing with Orik, Arya, and dwarves farther
down the table. In that manner, the hours hastened by, for the feast was
so large, it was late afternoon before the last course had been served, the
last bite consumed, and the last chalice drained. As servants removed the
tableware, Ûndin turned to Eragon and said, “The meal pleased you, yes?”
105
“It was delicious.”
Ûndin nodded. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I had the tables moved outside
yesterday so the dragon might dine with us.” He remained intently fo-
cused on Eragon all the while he spoke.
Eragon went cold inside. Intentionally or not, Ûndin had treated
Saphira as no more than a beast. Eragon had intended to ask about the
veiled dwarves in private, but now—out of a desire to unsettle Ûndin—
he said, “Saphira and I thank you.” Then, “Sir, why was the ring thrown at
us?”
A painful silence crept over the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye,
Eragon saw Orik wince. Arya, however, smiled as if she understood what
he was doing.
Ûndin put down his dagger, scowling thickly. “The knurlagn you met
are of a tragic clan. Before the Riders’ fall, they were among the oldest,
richest families of our kingdom. Their doom was sealed, though, by two
mistakes: they lived on the western edge of the Beor Mountains, and they
volunteered their greatest warriors in Vrael’s service.”
Anger broke through his voice with sharp cracks. “Galbatorix and his
ever-cursed Forsworn slaughtered them in your city of Urû’baen. Then
they flew on us, killing many. Of that clan, only Grimstcarvlorss Anhûin
and her guards survived. Anhûin soon died of grief, and her men took the
name Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, The Tears of Anhûin, covering their faces
to remind themselves of their loss and their desire for revenge.”
Eragon’s cheeks stung with shame as he fought to keep his face expres-
sionless. “So,” said Ûndin, glowering at a pastry, “they rebuilt the clan over
the decades, waiting and hunting for recompense. And now you come,
bearing Hrothgar’s mark. It is the ultimate insult to them, no matter your
service in Farthen Dûr. Thus the ring, the ultimate challenge. It means
Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will oppose you with all their re-
sources, in every matter, big or small. They have set themselves against
you utterly, declared themselves blood enemies.”
“Do they mean me bodily harm?” asked Eragon stiffly.
Ûndin’s gaze faltered for a moment as he cast a look at Gannel, then he
shook his head and uttered a gruff laugh that was, perhaps, louder than
the occasion warranted. “No, Shadeslayer! Not even they would dare hurt
a guest. It is forbidden. They only want you gone, gone, gone.” Yet Eragon
106
still wondered. Then Ûndin said, “Please, let us talk no more of these un-
pleasant matters. Gannel and I have offered our food and mead in friend-
ship; is that not what matters?” The priest murmured in concordance.
“It is appreciated,” Eragon finally relented.
Saphira looked at him with solemn eyes and said, They are afraid, Er-
agon. Afraid and resentful because they have been forced to accept a Rider’s
assistance.
Aye. They may fight with us, but they don’t fight for us.
107
CELBEDEIL
The dawnless morning found Eragon in Ûndin’s main hall, listening as
the clan chief spoke to Orik in Dwarvish. Ûndin broke off as Eragon ap-
proached, then said, “Ah, Shadeslayer. You slept well?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He gestured at Orik. “We have been considering your depar-
ture. I had hoped you’d be able to spend some time with us. But under
the circumstances, it seems best if you resume your journey early tomor-
row morning, when few are in the streets who might trouble you. Sup-
plies and transportation are being readied even as I speak. It was Hroth-
gar’s orders that guards should accompany you as far as Ceris. I have in-
creased their numbers from three to seven.”
“And in the meantime?”
Ûndin shrugged his fur-bound shoulders. “I had intended to show you
the wonders of Tarnag, but it would be foolish now for you to wander
mine city. However, Grimstborith Gannel has invited you to Celbedeil
for the day. Accept if you wish. You’ll be safe with him.” The clan chief
seemed to have forgotten his earlier assertion that Az Sweldn rak Anhûin
would not harm a guest.
“Thank you, I might at that.” As Eragon left the hall, he pulled Orik
aside and asked, “How serious is this feud, really? I need to know the
truth.”
Orik answered with obvious reluctance: “In the past, it was not un-
common for blood feuds to endure for generations. Entire families were
driven extinct because of them. It was rash of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin to
invoke the old ways; such a thing has not been done since the last of the
clan wars. . Until they rescind their oath, you must guard against their
treachery, whether it be for a year or a century. I’m sorry that your
friendship with Hrothgar has brought this upon you, Eragon. But you are
not alone. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum stands with you in this.”
Once outside, Eragon hurried to Saphira, who had spent the night
coiled in the courtyard. Do you mind if I visit Celbedeil?
108
Go if you must. But take Zar’roc. He followed her advice, also tucking
Nasuada’s scroll into his tunic.
When Eragon approached the gates to the hall’s enclosure, five dwarves
pushed the rough-hewn timbers aside, then closed in around him, hands
on their axes and swords as they inspected the street. The guards re-
mained as Eragon retraced yesterday’s path to the barred entrance of Tar-
nag’s foremost tier.
Eragon shivered. The city seemed unnaturally empty. Doors were
closed, windows were shuttered, and the few pedestrians in evidence
averted their faces and turned down alleys to avoid walking past him.
They’re scared to be seen near me, he realized. Perhaps because they know
Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will retaliate against anyone who helps me. Eager to
escape the open street, Eragon raised his hand to knock, but before he
could, one door grated outward, and a black-robed dwarf beckoned from
within. Tightening his sword belt, Eragon entered, leaving his guards out-
side.
His first impression was of color. A burning-green sward splayed
around the pillared mass of Celbedeil, like a mantle dropped over the
symmetrical hill that upheld the temple. Ivy strangled the building’s an-
cient walls in foot after foot of hairy ropes, dew still glittering on the
pointed leaves. And curving above all but the mountains was the great
white cupola ribbed with chiseled gold.
His next impression was of smell. Flowers and incense mixed their per-
fumes into an aroma so ethereal, Eragon felt as if he could live on the
scent alone.
Last was sound, for despite clumps of priests strolling along mosaic
pathways and spacious grounds, the only noise Eragon could discern was
the soft thump of a rook flying overhead.
The dwarf beckoned again and strode down the main avenue toward
Celbedeil. As they passed under its eaves, Eragon could only marvel at
the wealth and craftsmanship displayed around him. The walls were
spotted with gems of every color and cut—though all flawless—and red
gold had been hammered into the veins lacing the stone ceilings, walls,
and floor. Pearls and silver provided accents. Occasionally, they passed a
screen partition carved entirely of jade.
The temple was devoid of cloth decorations. In their absence, the
dwarves had carved a profusion of statues, many depicting monsters and
109
deities locked in epic battles.
After climbing several floors, they passed through a copper door waxy
with verdigris and embossed with intricate, patterned knots into a bare
room floored with wood. Armor hung thickly on the walls, along with
racks of staff-swords identical to the one Angela had fought with in Far-
then Dûr.
Gannel was there, sparring with three younger dwarves. The clan
chief’s robe was rucked up over his thighs so he could move freely, his
face a fierce scowl as the wood shaft spun in his hands, unsharpened
blades darting like riled hornets.
Two dwarves lunged at Gannel, only to be stymied in a clatter of wood
and metal as he spun past them, rapping their knees and heads and send-
ing them to the floor. Eragon grinned as he watched Gannel disarm his
last opponent in a brilliant flurry of blows.
At last the clan chief noticed Eragon and dismissed the other dwarves.
As Gannel set his weapon on a rack, Eragon said, “Are all Quan so profi-
cient with the blade? It seems an odd skill for priests.”
Gannel faced him. “We must be able to defend ourselves, no? Many
enemies stalk this land.”
Eragon nodded. “Those are unique swords. I’ve never seen their like,
except for one an herbalist used in the battle of Farthen Dûr.”
The dwarf sucked in his breath, then let it hiss out between his teeth.
“Angela.” His expression soured. “She won her staff from a priest in a
game of riddles. It was a nasty trick, as we are the only ones allowed to
use hûthvírn. She and Arya. .” He shrugged and went to a small table,
where he filled two mugs with ale. Handing one to Eragon, he said, “I in-
vited you here today at Hrothgar’s request. He told me that if you ac-
cepted his offer to become Ingeitum, I was to acquaint you with dwarf
traditions.”
Eragon sipped the ale and kept silent, eyeing how Gannel’s thick brow
caught the light, shadows dripping down his cheeks from the bony ridge.
The clan chief continued: “Never before has an outsider been taught
our secret beliefs, nor may you speak of them to human or elf. Yet with-
out this knowledge, you cannot uphold what it means to be knurla. You
are Ingeitum now: our blood, our flesh, our honor. You understand?”
110
“I do.”
“Come.” Keeping his ale in hand, Gannel took Eragon from the sparring
room and conveyed him through five grand corridors, stopping in the
archway to a dim chamber hazy with incense. Facing them, the squat
outline of a statue swelled ponderously from floor to ceiling, a faint light
cast across the brooding dwarf face hacked with uncharacteristic crude-
ness from brown granite.
“Who is he?” asked Eragon, intimidated.
“Gûntera, King of the Gods. He is a warrior and a scholar, though fickle
in his moods, so we burn offerings to assure his affection at the solstices,
before sowing, and at deaths and births.” Gannel twisted his hand in a
strange gesture and bowed to the statue. “It is to him we pray before bat-
tles, for he molded this land from the bones of a giant and gives the
world its order. All realms are Gûntera’s.”
Then Gannel instructed Eragon how to properly venerate the god, ex-
plaining the signs and words that were used for homage. He elucidated
the meaning of the incense—how it symbolized life and happiness—and
spent long minutes recounting legends about Gûntera, how the god was
born fully formed to a she-wolf at the dawn of stars, how he had battled
monsters and giants to win a place for his kin in Alagaësia, and how he
had taken Kílf, the goddess of rivers and the sea, as his mate.
Next they went to Kílf’s statue, which was carved with exquisite deli-
cacy out of pale blue stone. Her hair flew back in liquid ripples, rolling
down her neck and framing merry amethyst eyes. In her hands, she
cupped a water lily and a chunk of porous red rock that Eragon did not
recognize.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Coral taken from deep within the sea that borders the Beors.”