a pure white background. It took Eragon a long moment to recognize the
man on the right as Roran. He was garbed in travel-worn clothes, a ham-
mer was stuck under his belt, a thick beard obscured his face, and he
bore a haunted expression that bespoke desperation. To the left was
Jeod. The men surged up and down, accompanied by the thunderous
crash of waves, which masked anything they said. After a while, Roran
turned and walked along what Eragon assumed was the deck of a ship,
bringing dozens of other villagers into view.
Where are they, and why is Jeod with them? demanded Eragon, bewil-
dered.
513
Diverting the magic, he scryed in quick succession Teirm—shocked to
see that the city’s wharfs had been destroyed—Therinsford, Garrow’s old
farm, and then Carvahall, whereupon Eragon uttered a wounded cry.
The village was gone.
Every building, including Horst’s magnificent house, had been burned
to the ground. Carvahall no longer existed except as a sooty blot beside
the Anora River. The sole remaining inhabitants were four gray wolves
that loped through the wreckage.
The mirror dropped from Eragon’s hand and shattered across the floor.
He leaned against Saphira, tears burning in his eyes as he grieved anew for
his lost home. Saphira hummed deep in her chest and brushed his arm
with the side of her jaw, enveloping him in a warm blanket of sympathy.
Take comfort, little one. At least your friends are still alive.
He shuddered and felt a hard core of determination coalesce in his
belly. We have remained sequestered from the world for far too long. It’s
high time we leave Ellesméra and confront our fate, whatever it may be. For
now, Roran must fend for himself, but the Varden... the Varden we can
help.
Is it time to fight, Eragon? asked Saphira, an odd note of formality in her
voice.
He knew what she meant: Was it time to challenge the Empire head-
on, time to kill and rampage to the limit of their considerable abilities,
time to unleash every ounce of their rage until Galbatorix lay dead before
them? Was it time to commit themselves to a campaign that could take
decades to resolve?
It is time.
514
GIFTS
Eragon packed his belongings in less than five minutes. He took the
saddle Oromis had given them, strapped it onto Saphira, then slung his
bags over her back and buckled them down.
Saphira tossed her head, nostrils flared, and said, I will wait for you at
the field. With a roar, she launched herself from the tree house, unfolding
her blue wings in midair, and flew off, skimming the forest canopy.
Quick as an elf, Eragon ran to Tialdarí Hall, where he found Orik sit-
ting in his usual corner, playing a game of Runes. The dwarf greeted him
with a hearty slap on the arm. “Eragon! What brings you here at this time
of the morn? I thought you’d be off banging swords with Vanir.”
“Saphira and I are leaving,” said Eragon.
Orik stopped with his mouth open, then narrowed his eyes, going seri-
ous. “You’ve had news?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. Do you want to come?”
“To Surda?”
“Aye.”
A wide smile broke across Orik’s hairy face. “You’d have to clap me in
irons before I’d stay behind. I’ve done nothing in Ellesméra but grow fat
and lazy. A bit of excitement will do me good. When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Gather your things and meet us at the sparring
grounds. Can you scrounge up a week’s worth of provisions for the two
of us?”
“A week’s? But that won’t—”
“We’re flying on Saphira.”
The skin above Orik’s beard turned pale. “We dwarves don’t do well
with heights, Eragon. We don’t do well at all. It’d be better if we could
ride horses, like we did coming here.”
Eragon shook his head. “That would take too long. Besides, it’s easy to
515
ride Saphira. She’ll catch you if you fall.” Orik grunted, appearing both
queasy and unconvinced. Leaving the hall, Eragon sped through the syl-
van city until he rejoined Saphira, and then they flew to the Crags of
Tel’naeír.
Oromis was sitting upon Glaedr’s right forearm when they landed in
the clearing. The dragon’s scales gilded the landscape with countless chips
of golden light. Neither elf nor dragon stirred. Descending from Saphira’s
back, Eragon bowed. “Master Glaedr. Master Oromis.”
Glaedr said, You have taken it upon yourself to return to the Varden, have
you not?
We have, replied Saphira.
Eragon’s sense of betrayal overcame his self-restraint. “Why did you
hide the truth from us? Are you so determined to keep us here that you
must resort to such underhand trickery? The Varden are about to be at-
tacked and you didn’t even mention it!”
Calm as ever, Oromis asked, “Do you wish to hear why?”
Very much, Master, said Saphira before Eragon could respond. In pri-
vate, she scolded him, growling, Be polite!
“We withheld the tidings for two reasons. Chief among them was that
we ourselves did not know until nine days past that the Varden were
threatened, and the true size, location, and movements of the Empire’s
troops remained concealed from us until three days after that, when Lord
Däthedr pierced the spells Galbatorix used to deceive our scrying.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you said nothing of this.” Eragon
scowled. “Not only that, but once you discovered that the Varden were
in danger, why didn’t Islanzadí rouse the elves to fight? Are we not al-
lies?”
“She has roused the elves, Eragon. The forest echoes with the ring of
hammers, the tramp of armored boots, and the grief of those who are
about to be parted. For the first time in a century, our race is set to
emerge from Du Weldenvarden and challenge our greatest foe. The time
has come for elves to once more walk openly in Alagaësia.” Gently,
Oromis added, “You have been distracted of late, Eragon, and I under-
stand why. Now you must look beyond yourself. The world demands
your attention.”
516
Shamefaced, all Eragon could say was, “I am sorry, Master.” He remem-
bered Blagden’s words and allowed himself a bitter smile. “I’m as blind as
a bat.”
“Hardly, Eragon. You have done well, considering the enormous re-
sponsibilities we have asked you to shoulder.” Oromis looked at him
gravely. “We expect to receive a missive from Nasuada in the next few
days, requesting assistance from Islanzadí and that you rejoin the Varden.
I intended to inform you of the Varden’s predicament then, when you
would still have enough time to reach Surda before swords are drawn. If I
told you earlier, you would have been honor-bound to abandon your
training and rush to the defense of your liegelord. That is why I and Islan-
zadí held our tongues.”
“My training won’t matter if the Varden are destroyed.”
“No. But you may be the only person who can prevent them from be-
ing destroyed, for a chance exists—slim but terrible—that Galbatorix
will be present at this battle. It is far too late for our warriors to assist the
Varden, which means that if Galbatorix is indeed there, you shall con-
front him alone, without the protection of our spellweavers. Under those
circumstances, it seemed vital that your training continue for as long as
possible.”
In an instant, Eragon’s anger melted away and was replaced with a cold,
hard, and brutally practical mind-set as he understood the necessity for
Oromis’s silence. Personal feelings were irrelevant in a situation as dire as
theirs. With a flat voice, he said, “You were right. My oath of fealty com-
pels me to ensure the safety of Nasuada and the Varden. However, I’m
not ready to confront Galbatorix. Not yet, at least.”
“My suggestion,” said Oromis, “is that if Galbatorix reveals himself, do
everything you can to distract him from the Varden until the battle is
decided for good or for ill and avoid directly fighting him. Before you go,
I ask but one thing: that you and Saphira vow that—once events per-
mit—you will return here to complete your training, for you still have
much to learn.”
We shall return, pledged Saphira, binding herself in the ancient lan-
guage.
“We shall return,” repeated Eragon, and sealed their fate.
517
Appearing satisfied, Oromis reached behind himself and produced an
embroidered red pouch that he tugged open. “In anticipation of your de-
parture, I gathered together three gifts for you, Eragon.” From the pouch,
he withdrew a silver bottle. “First, some faelnirv I augmented with my
own enchantments. This potion can sustain you when all else fails, and
you may find its properties useful in other circumstances as well. Drink it
sparingly, for I only had time to prepare a few mouthfuls.”
He handed the bottle to Eragon, then removed a long black-and- blue
sword belt from the pouch. The belt felt unusually thick and heavy to
Eragon when he ran it through his hands. It was made of cloth threads
woven together in an interlocking pattern that depicted a coiling Lianí
Vine. At Oromis’s instruction, Eragon pulled at a tassel at the end of the
belt and gasped as a strip in its center slid back to expose twelve dia-
monds, each an inch across. Four diamonds were white, four were black,
and the remainder were red, blue, yellow, and brown. They glittered cold
and brilliant, like ice in the dawn, casting a rainbow of multicolored
specks onto Eragon’s hands.
“Master. .” Eragon shook his head, at a loss for words for several breaths.
“Is it safe to give this to me?”
“Guard it well so that none are tempted to steal it. This is the belt of
Beloth the Wise—who you read of in your history of the Year of Dark-
ness—and is one of the great treasures of the Riders. These are the most
perfect gems the Riders could find. Some we traded for with the
dwarves. Others we won in battle or mined ourselves. The stones have
no magic of their own, but you may use them as repositories for your
power and draw upon that reserve when in need. This, in addition to the
ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel, will allow you to amass a store of energy so
that you do not become unduly exhausted casting spells in battle, or even
when confronting enemy magicians.”
Last, Oromis brought out a thin scroll protected inside a wooden tube
that was decorated with a bas-relief sculpture of the Menoa tree. Unfurl-
ing the scroll, Eragon saw the poem he had recited at the Agaetí
Blödhren. It was lettered in Oromis’s finest calligraphy and illustrated
with the elf’s detailed ink paintings. Plants and animals twined together
inside the outline of the first glyph of each quatrain, while delicate
scrollwork traced the columns of words and framed the images.
“I thought,” said Oromis, “that you would appreciate a copy for your-
self.”
518
Eragon stood with twelve priceless diamonds in one hand and Oromis’s
scroll in the other, and he knew that it was the scroll he deemed the
most precious. Eragon bowed and, reduced to the simplest language by
the depth of his gratitude, said, “Thank you, Master.”
Then Oromis surprised Eragon by initiating the elves’ traditional greet-
ing and thereby indicating his respect for Eragon: “May good fortune rule
over you.”
“May the stars watch over you.”
“And may peace live in your heart,” finished the silver-haired elf. He
repeated the exchange with Saphira. “Now go and fly as fast as the north
wind, knowing that you—Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer—
carry the blessing of Oromis, last scion of House Thrándurin, he who is
both the Mourning Sage and the Cripple Who Is Whole.”
And mine as well, added Glaedr. Extending his neck, he touched the tip
of his nose to Saphira’s, his gold eyes glittering like swirling pools of em-
bers. Remember to keep your heart safe, Saphira. She hummed in response.
They parted with solemn farewells. Saphira soared over the tangled
forest and Oromis and Glaedr dwindled behind them, lonely on the crags.
Despite the hardships of his stay in Ellesméra, Eragon would miss being
among the elves, for with them he had found the closest thing to a home
since fleeing Palancar Valley.
I leave here a changed man, he thought, and closed his eyes, clinging to
Saphira.
Before going to meet with Orik, they made one more stop: Tialdarí
Hall. Saphira landed in the enclosed gardens, careful not to damage any of
the plants with her tail or claws. Without waiting for her to crouch, Er-
agon leaped straight to the ground, a drop that would have injured him
before.
A male elf came out, touched his lips with his first two fingers, and
asked if he could help them. When Eragon replied that he sought an au-
dience with Islanzadí, the elf said, “Please wait here, Silver Hand.”
Not five minutes later, the queen herself emerged from the wooded
depths of Tialdarí Hall, her crimson tunic like a drop of blood among the
white-robed elf lords and ladies who accompanied her. After the appro-
priate forms of address were observed, she said, “Oromis informed me of