a relationship with his mother.
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Ever since he was old enough to understand that he was a fosterling,
Eragon had wondered who his father was and why his mother left him to
be raised by her brother, Garrow, and his wife, Marian. Those answers
had been thrust upon him from such an unexpected source, and in such
an unpropitious setting, it was more than he could make sense of at the
moment. It would take months, if not years, to come to terms with the
revelation.
Eragon always assumed he would be glad to learn the identity of his fa-
ther. Now that he had, the knowledge revolted him. When he was
younger, he often entertained himself by imagining that his father was
someone grand and important, though Eragon knew the opposite was far
more likely. Still, it never occurred to him, even in his most extravagant
daydreams, that he might be the son of a Rider, much less one of the For-
sworn.
It turned a daydream into a nightmare.
I was sired by a monster.... My father was the one who betrayed the Rid-
ers to Galbatorix. It left Eragon feeling sullied.
But no...As he healed a man’s broken spine, a new way of viewing the
situation occurred to him, one that restored a measure of his self-
confidence: Morzan may be my parent, but he is not my father. Garrow was
my father. He raised me. He taught me how to live well and honorably,
with integrity. I am who I am because of him. Even Brom and Oromis are
more my father than Morzan. And Roran is my brother, not Murtagh.
Eragon nodded, determined to maintain that outlook. Until then, he
had refused to completely accept Garrow as his father. And even though
Garrow was dead, doing so relieved Eragon, gave him a sense of closure,
and helped to ameliorate his distress over Morzan.
You have grown wise, observed Saphira.
Wise? He shook his head. No, I’ve just learned how to think. That much,
at least, Oromis gave me. Eragon wiped a layer of dirt off the face of a
fallen banner boy, making sure he really was dead, then straightened,
wincing as his muscles spasmed in protest. You realize, don’t you, that
Brom must have known about this. Why else would he choose to hide in
Carvahall while he waited for you to hatch?... He wanted to keep an eye
upon his enemy’s son. It unsettled him to think that Brom might have
considered him a threat. And he was right too. Look what ended up hap-
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pening to me!
Saphira ruffled his hair with a gust of her hot breath. Just remember,
whatever Brom’s reasons, he always tried to protect us from danger. He died
saving you from the Ra’zac.
I know.... Do you think he didn’t tell me about this because he was afraid
I might emulate Morzan, like Murtagh has?
Of course not.
He looked at her, curious. How can you be so certain? She lifted her
head high above him and refused to meet his eyes or to answer. Have it
your way, then. Kneeling by one of King Orrin’s men, who had an arrow
through the gut, Eragon grabbed his arms to stop him from writhing.
“Easy now.”
“Water,” groaned the man. “For pity’s sake, water. My throat is as dry as
sand. Please, Shadeslayer.” Sweat beaded his face.
Eragon smiled, trying to comfort him. “I can give you a drink now, but
it’d be better if you wait until after I heal you. Can you wait? If you do, I
promise you can have all the water you want.”
“You promise, Shadeslayer?”
“I promise.”
The man visibly struggled against another wave of agony before saying,
“If I must.”
With the aid of magic, Eragon drew out the shaft, then he and Saphira
worked to repair the man’s innards, using some of the warrior’s own en-
ergy to fuel the spell. It took several minutes. Afterward, the man exam-
ined his belly, pressing his hands against the flawless skin, then gazed at
Eragon, tears brimming in his eyes. “I. . Shadeslayer, you. .”
Eragon handed him his waterskin. “Here, keep it. You have greater
need of it than I.”
A hundred yards beyond, Eragon and Saphira breached an acrid wall of
smoke. There they came upon Orik and ten other dwarves—some
women—arrayed around the body of Hrothgar, who lay upon four
shields, resplendent in his golden mail. The dwarves tore at their hair,
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beat their breasts, and wailed their lamentations to the sky. Eragon
bowed his head and murmured, “Stydja unin mor’ranr, Hrothgar
Könungr.”
After a time, Orik noticed them and rose, his face red from crying and
his beard torn free of its usual braid. He staggered over to Eragon and,
without preempt, asked, “Did you kill the coward responsible for this?”
“He escaped.” Eragon could not bring himself to explain that the Rider
was Murtagh.
Orik stamped his fist into his hand. “Barzûln!”
“But I swear to you upon every stone in Alagaësia that, as one of Dûr-
grimst Ingeitum, I’ll do everything I can to avenge Hrothgar’s death.”
“Aye, you’re the only one besides the elves strong enough to bring this
foul murderer to justice. And when you find him. . grind his bones to
dust, Eragon. Pull his teeth and fill his veins with molten lead; make him
suffer for every minute of Hrothgar’s life that he stole.”
“Wasn’t it a good death? Wouldn’t Hrothgar have wanted to die in bat-
tle, with Volund in his hand?”
“In battle, yes, facing an honest foe who dared stand and fight like a
man. Not brought low by a magician’s trickery. . ” Shaking his head, Orik
looked back at Hrothgar, then crossed his arms and tucked his chin
against his collarbone. He took several ragged breaths. “When my parents
died of the pox, Hrothgar gave me a life again. He took me into his hall.
He made me his heir. Losing him. .” Orik pinched the bridge of his nose
between his thumb and forefinger, covering his face. “Losing him is like
losing my father again.”
The grief in his voice was so clear, Eragon felt as if he shared the
dwarf’s sorrow. “I understand,” he said.
“I know you do, Eragon. . I know you do.” After a moment, Orik wiped
his eyes and gestured at the ten dwarves. “Before anything else is done,
we have to return Hrothgar to Farthen Dûr so he can be entombed with
his predecessors. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum must choose a new grimstborith,
and then the thirteen clan chiefs—including the ones you see here—will
select our next king from among themselves. What happens next, I know
not. This tragedy will embolden some clans and turn others against our
cause. . ” He shook his head again.
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Eragon put his hand on Orik’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that now.
You have but to ask, and my arm and my will are at your service. . If you
want, come to my tent and we can share a cask of mead and toast Hroth-
gar’s memory.”
“I’d like that. But not yet. Not until we finish pleading with the gods to
grant Hrothgar safe passage to the afterlife.” Leaving Eragon, Orik re-
turned to the circle of dwarves and added his voice to their keening.
Continuing on through the Burning Plains, Saphira said, Hrothgar was a
great king.
Aye, and a good person. Eragon sighed. We should find Arya and
Nasuada. I couldn’t even heal a scratch right now, and they need to know
about Murtagh.
Agreed.
They angled south toward the Varden’s encampment, but before they
traveled more than a few yards, Eragon saw Roran approaching from the
Jiet River. Trepidation filled him. Roran stopped directly in front of
them, planted his feet wide apart, and stared at Eragon, working his jaw
up and down as if he wanted to talk but was unable to get the words past
his teeth.
Then he punched Eragon on the chin.
It would have been easy for Eragon to avoid the blow, but he allowed
it to land, rolling away from it a bit so Roran did not break his knuckles.
It still hurt.
Wincing, Eragon faced his cousin. “I guess I deserved that.”
“That you did. We have to talk.”
“Now?”
“It can’t wait. The Ra’zac captured Katrina, and I need your help to res-
cue her. They’ve had her ever since we left Carvahall.”
So that’s it. In an instant, Eragon realized why Roran appeared so grim
and haunted, and why he had brought the entire village to Surda. Brom
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was right, Galbatorix sent the Ra’zac back to Palancar Valley. Eragon
frowned, torn between his responsibility to Roran and his duty to report
to Nasuada. “There’s something I need to do first, and then we can talk.
All right? You can accompany me if you want. . ”
“I’ll come.”
As they traversed the pockmarked land, Eragon kept glancing at Roran
out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he said in a low voice, “I missed you.”
Roran faltered, then responded with a curt nod. A few steps later, he
asked, “This is Saphira, right? Jeod said that was her name.”
“Aye.”
Saphira peered at Roran with one of her glittering eyes. He bore her
scrutiny without turning away, which was more than most people could
do. I have always wanted to meet Eragon’s nest-mate.
“She speaks!” exclaimed Roran when Eragon repeated her words.
This time Saphira addressed him directly: What? Did you think I was as
mute as a rock lizard?
Roran blinked. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know that dragons were so
intelligent.” A grim smile twisted his lips. “First Ra’zac and magicians,
now dwarves, Riders, and talking dragons. It seems the whole world has
gone mad.”
“It does seem that way.”
“I saw you fight that other Rider. Did you wound him? Is that why he
fled?”
“Wait. You’ll hear.”
When they reached the pavilion Eragon was searching for, he swept
back the flap and ducked inside, followed by Roran and Saphira, who
pushed her head and neck in after them. In the center of the tent,
Nasuada sat on the edge of the table, letting a maid remove her twisted
armor while she carried on a heated discussion with Arya. The cut on her
thigh had been healed.
Nasuada stopped in the middle of her sentence as she spotted the new
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arrivals. Running toward them, she threw her arms around Eragon and
cried, “Where were you? We thought you were dead, or worse.”
“Not quite.”
“The candle still burns,” murmured Arya.
Stepping back, Nasuada said, “We couldn’t see what happened to you
and Saphira after you landed on the plateau. When the red dragon left
and you didn’t appear, Arya tried to contact you but felt nothing, so we
assumed. .” She trailed off. “We were just debating the best way to trans-
port Du Vrangr Gata and an entire company of warriors across the river.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just so tired after the fight,
I forgot to lower my barriers.” Then Eragon brought Roran forward.
“Nasuada, I would like to introduce my cousin, Roran. Ajihad may have
mentioned him to you before. Roran, Lady Nasuada, leader of the Varden
and my liegelord. And this is Arya Svit-kona, the elves’ ambassador.” Ro-
ran bowed to each of them in turn.
“It is an honor to meet Eragon’s cousin,” said Nasuada.
“Indeed,” added Arya.
After they finished exchanging greetings, Eragon explained that the en-
tire village of Carvahall had arrived on the Dragon Wing, and that Roran
was the one responsible for killing the Twins.
Nasuada lifted a dark eyebrow. “The Varden are in your debt, Roran,
for stopping their rampage. Who knows how much damage the Twins
would have caused before Eragon or Arya could have confronted them?
You helped us to win this battle. I won’t forget that. Our supplies are
limited, but I will see that everyone on your ship is clothed and fed, and
that your sick are treated.”
Roran bowed even lower. “Thank you, Lady Nasuada.”
“If I weren’t so pressed for time, I would insist upon knowing how and
why you and your village evaded Galbatorix’s men, traveled to Surda, and
then found us. Even just the bare facts of your trek make an extraordi-
nary tale. I still intend to learn the specifics—especially since I suspect it
concerns Eragon—but I must deal with other, more urgent matters at the
moment.”
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“Of course, Lady Nasuada.”
“You may go, then.”
“Please,” said Eragon, “let him stay. He should be here for this.”
Nasuada gave him a quizzical look. “Very well. If you want. But enough
of this dawdling. Jump to the meat of the matter and tell us about the
Rider!”
Eragon began with a quick history of the three remaining dragon eggs—
two of which had now hatched—as well as Morzan and Murtagh, so that
Roran would understand the significance of his news. Then he proceeded
to describe his and Saphira’s fight with Thorn and the mysterious Rider,
paying special attention to his extraordinary powers. “As soon as he spun
his sword around, I realized we had dueled before, so I threw myself at
him and tore off his helm.” Eragon paused.
“It was Murtagh, wasn’t it?” asked Nasuada quietly.
“How. . ?”
She sighed. “If the Twins survived, it only made sense that Murtagh had
as well. Did he tell you what really happened that day in Farthen Dûr?”