#aregon

LXX

REUNION

Aregon and Saphira picked their way between the corpses that littered the Burning Plains, moving slowly on account of their wounds and their exhaustion. They encountered other survivors staggering through the scorched battlefield, hollow-eyed men who looked without truly seeing, their gazes focused somewhere in the distance.

Now that her bloodlust had subsided, Aregon felt nothing but sorrow. The fighting seemed so pointless to her. What a tragedy that so many must die to thwart a single madman. She paused to sidestep a thicket of arrows planted in the mud and noticed the gash on Saphira’s tail where Thorn had bitten her, as well as her other injuries. Here, lend me your strength; I’ll heal you.

Tend to those in mortal danger first.

Are you sure?

Quite sure, little one.

Acquiescing, she bent down and mended a soldier’s torn neck before moving on to one of the Varden. She made no distinction between friend and foe, treating both to the limit of her abilities.

Aregon was so preoccupied with her thoughts, she paid little attention to her work. She wished she could repudiate Murtagh’s claim, but everything Murtagh had said about her mother—their mother—coincided with the few things Aregon knew about her: Selena left Carvahall twenty-some years ago, returned once to give birth to Aregon, and was never seen again. Her mind darted back to when she and Murtagh first arrived in Farthen Dûr. Murtagh had discussed how his mother had vanished from Morzan’s castle while Morzan was hunting Brom, Jeod, and Saphira’s egg. After Morzan threw Zar’roc at Murtagh and nearly killed him, Mother must have hidden her pregnancy and then gone back to Carvahall in order to protect me from Morzan and Galbatorix.

It heartened Aregon to know that Selena had cared for her so deeply. It also grieved her to know she was dead and they would never meet, for she had nurtured the hope, faint as it was, that her parents might still be alive. She no longer harbored any desire to be acquainted with her father, but she bitterly resented that she had been deprived of the chance to have a relationship with her mother.

Ever since she was old enough to understand that she was a fosterling, Aregon had wondered who her father was and why her mother left her to be raised by her brother, Garrow, and his husband, Marian. Those answers had been thrust upon her from such an unexpected source, and in such an unpropitious setting, it was more than she could make sense of at the moment. It would take months, if not years, to come to terms with the revelation.

Aregon always assumed she would be glad to learn the identity of her father. Now that she had, the knowledge revolted her. When she was younger, she often entertained herself by imagining that her father was

someone grand and important, though Aregon knew the opposite was far more likely. Still, it never occurred to her, even in her most extravagant daydreams, that she might be the daughter of a Rider, much less one of the Forsworn. It turned a daydream into a nightmare.

I was sired by a monster.... My father was the one who betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix. It left Aregon feeling sullied.

But no...As she healed a man’s broken spine, a new way of viewing the situation occurred to her, one that restored a measure of her 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 sister, not Murtagh.

Aregon nodded, determined to maintain that outlook. Until then, she had refused to completely accept Garrow as her father. And even though Garrow was dead, doing so relieved Aregon, gave her a sense of closure, and helped to ameliorate her distress over Morzan.

You have grown wise, observed Saphira.

Wise? She shook her head. No, I’ve just learned how to think. That much, at least, Oromis gave me. Aregon wiped a layer of dirt off the face of a fallen banner boy, making sure he really was dead, then straightened, wincing as her 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 daughter. It unsettled her to think that Brom might have considered her a threat. And he was right too. Look what ended up happening to me!

Saphira ruffled Aregon’s 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.

Aregon looked at her, curious. How can you be so certain? She lifted her head high above her and refused to meet her eyes or to answer. Have it your way, then. Kneeling by one of King Orrin’s men, who had an arrow through the gut, Aregon 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.

Aregon 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, Aregon drew out the shaft, then she and Saphira worked to repair the man’s innards, using some of the warrior’s own energy to fuel the spell. It took several minutes. Afterward, the man examined his belly, pressing his hands against the flawless skin, then gazed at Aregon, tears brimming in his eyes. “I... Shadeslayer, you...”

Aregon handed him her waterskin. “Here, keep it. You have greater need of it than I.”

A hundred yards beyond, Aregon and Saphira breached an acrid wall of smoke. There they came upon Orik and ten other dwarves arrayed around the body of Hrothgar, who lay upon four shields, resplendent in his golden mail. The dwarves tore at their hair, beat their breasts, and wailed their lamentations to the sky. Aregon bowed her 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 Aregon and, without preempt, asked, “Did you kill the coward responsible for this?”

“He escaped.” Aregon could not bring herself 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 Dûrgrimst 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, Aregon. 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 battle, with Volund in his hand?”

“In battle, yes, facing an honest foe who dared stand and fight like a warrior. 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, Aregon felt as if she shared the dwarf’s sorrow. “I understand,” she said.

“I know you do, Aregon.... 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.

Aregon put her 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 Hrothgar’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 Aregon, Orik returned 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. Aregon 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, Aregon saw Roran approaching from the Jiet River. Trepidation filled her. Roran stopped directly in front of them, planted her feet wide apart, and stared at Aregon, working her jaw up and down as if she wanted to talk but was unable to get the words past her teeth.

Then she punched Aregon on the chin.

It would have been easy for Aregon to avoid the blow, but she allowed it to land, rolling away from it a bit so Roran did not break her knuckles.

It still hurt.

Wincing, Aregon faced her 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 rescue her. They’ve had her ever since we left Carvahall.”

So that’s it. In an instant, Aregon realized why Roran appeared so grim and haunted, and why she had brought the entire village to Surda. Brom was right, Galbatorix sent the Ra’zac back to Palancar Valley. Aregon frowned, torn between her responsibility to Roran and her 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, Aregon kept glancing at Roran out of the corner of her eye. Finally, she said in a low voice, “I missed you.”

Roran faltered, then responded with a curt nod. A few steps later, she asked, “This is Saphira, right? Jeod said that was her name.”

“Aye.”

Saphira peered at Roran with one of her glittering eyes. She bore her scrutiny without turning away, which was more than most people could do. I have always wanted to meet Aregon’s nest-mate.

“She speaks!” exclaimed Roran when Aregon repeated her words.

This time Saphira addressed her 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 her 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 Aregon was searching for, she 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 arrivals. Running toward them, she threw her arms around Aregon 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 transport 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 Aregon brought Roran forward. “Nasuada, I would like to introduce my cousin, Roran. Ajihad may have mentioned her to you before. Roran, Lady Nasuada, leader of the Varden and my liegelord. And this is Arya Svit-kona, the elves’ ambassador.” Roran bowed to each of them in turn.

“It is an honor to meet Aregon’s cousin,” said Nasuada.

“Indeed,” added Arya.

After they finished exchanging greetings, Aregon explained that the entire 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 Aregon 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 extraordinary tale. I still intend to learn the specifics—especially since I suspect it concerns Aregon—but I must deal with other, more urgent matters at the moment.”

“Of course, Lady Nasuada.”

“You may go, then.”

“Please,” said Aregon, “let her stay. She should be here for this.”

Nasuada gave her 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!”

Aregon 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 she proceeded to describe her 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.” Aregon 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?”

So Aregon recounted how the Twins betrayed the Varden, recruited the Urgals, and kidnapped Murtagh. A tear rolled down Nasuada’s cheek. “It’s a pity that this befell Murtagh when he has already endured so much hardship. I enjoyed his company in Tronjheim and believed he was our ally, despite his upbringing. I find it hard to think of him as our enemy.”

Turning to Roran, she said, “It seems I am also personally in your debt for slaying the traitors who murdered my father.”

Fathers, mothers, brothers, cousins, thought Aregon. It all comes down to family. Summoning her courage, she completed her report with Murtagh’s theft of Zar’roc and then her final, terrible secret.

“It can’t be,” whispered Nasuada.

Aregon saw shock and revulsion cross Roran’s face before she managed to conceal her reactions. That, more than anything else, hurt Aregon.

“Could Murtagh have been lying?” asked Arya.

“I don’t see how. When I questioned him, he told me the same thing in the ancient language.”

A long, uncomfortable silence filled the pavilion.

Then Arya said, “No one else can know about this. The Varden are demoralized enough by the presence of a new Rider. And they’ll be even more upset when they learn it’s Murtagh, whom they fought alongside and came to trust in Farthen Dûr. If word spreads that Aregon Shadeslayer is Morzan’s daughter, the people will grow disillusioned and few people will want to join us. Not even King Orrin should be told.”

Nasuada rubbed her temples. “I fear you’re right. A new Rider...” She shook her head. “I knew it was possible for this to occur, but I didn’t really believe it would, since Galbatorix’s remaining eggs had gone so long without hatching.”

“It has a certain symmetry,” said Aregon.

“Our task is doubly hard now. We may have held our own today, but the Empire still far outnumbers us, and now we face not one but two Riders, both of whom are stronger than you, Aregon. Do you think you could defeat Murtagh with the help of the elves’ spellcasters?”

“Maybe. But I doubt he’d be foolish enough to fight them and me together.” For several minutes, they discussed the effect Murtagh could have on their campaign and strategies to minimize or eliminate it. At last Nasuada said, “Enough. We cannot decide this when we are bloody and tired and our minds are clouded from fighting. Go, rest, and we shall take this up again tomorrow.”

As Aregon turned to leave, Arya approached and looked her straight in the eye. “Do not allow this to trouble you overmuch, Aregon-elda. You are not your father, nor your brother. Their shame is not yours.”

“Aye,” agreed Nasuada. “Nor imagine that it has lowered our opinion of you.” She reached out and cupped her face. “I know you, Aregon. You have a good heart. The name of your father cannot change that.”

Warmth blossomed inside Aregon. She looked between the two, then twisted her hand over her chest, overwhelmed by their friendship. “Thank you.”

Once they were back out in the open, Aregon put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath of the smoky air. It was late in the day, and the garish orange of noon had subsided into a dusky gold light that suffused the camp and battlefield, giving it a strange beauty. “So now you know,” she said.

Roran shrugged. “Blood always tells.”

“Don’t say that,” growled Aregon. “Don’t ever say that.”

Roran studied her for several seconds. “You’re right; it was an ugly thought. I didn’t mean it.” She scratched her chin and squinted at the bloated sun resting upon the horizon. “Nasuada wasn’t what I expected.”

That forced a tired chuckle out of Aregon. “The one you were expecting was her father, Ajihad. Still, she’s as good a leader as he was, if not better.”

Just then, Aregon felt Jeod, Horst, and a score of other people from Carvahall hurrying toward them. The villagers slowed as they rounded a tent and glimpsed Saphira. “Horst!” exclaimed Aregon. Stepping forward, she grasped the smith in a bear hug. “It’s good to see you again!”

Horst gaped at Aregon, then a delighted grin spread across her face. “Blast if it isn’t good to see you as well, Aregon. You’ve filled out since you left.”

“You mean since I ran away.”

Meeting the villagers was a strange experience for Aregon. Hardship had altered some of them so much, she barely recognized them. And they treated her differently than before, with a mixture of awe and reverence. It reminded her of a dream, where everything familiar is rendered alien. She was disconcerted by how out of place she felt among them.

When Aregon came to Jeod, she paused. “You know about Brom?”

“Ajihad sent me a message, but I’d like to hear what happened directly from you.”

Aregon nodded, grave. “As soon as I have the chance, we’ll sit down together and have a long talk.”

Then Jeod moved on to Saphira and bowed to her. “I waited my entire life to see a dragon, and now I have seen two in the same day. I am indeed lucky. However, you are the dragon I wanted to meet.”

Bending her neck, Saphira touched Jeod on the brow. He shivered at the contact. Give him my thanks for helping to rescue me from Galbatorix. Otherwise, I would still be languishing in the king’s treasury. He was Brom’s friend, and so he is our friend.

After Aregon repeated her words, Jeod said, “Atra esterní ono thelduin, Saphira Bjartskular,” surprising them with his knowledge of the ancient language.

“Where did you go?” Horst asked Roran. “We looked high and low for you after you took off in pursuit of those two magicians.”

“Never mind that now. Return to the ship and have everyone disembark; the Varden are sending us food and shelter. We can sleep on solid ground tonight!” They cheered.

Aregon watched with interest as Roran issued her commands. When at last Jeod and the villagers departed, Aregon said, “They trust you. Even Horst obeys you without question. Do you speak for all of Carvahall now?”

“I do.”

Heavy darkness was advancing upon the Burning Plains by the time they found the small two-man tent the Varden had assigned Aregon. Since Saphira could not fit her head through the opening, she curled up on the ground beside and prepared to keep watch.

As soon as I get my strength back, I’ll see to your wounds, promised Aregon.

I know. Don’t stay up too late talking.

Inside the tent, Aregon found an oil lantern that she lit with steel and flint. She could see perfectly well without it, but Roran needed the light.

They sat opposite each other: Aregon on the bedding laid out along one side of the tent, Roran on a folding stool she found leaning in a corner. Aregon was uncertain how to begin, so she remained silent and stared at the lamp’s dancing flame.

Neither of them moved.

After uncounted minutes, Roran said, “Tell me how my father died.”

“Our father.” Aregon remained calm as Roran’s expression hardened. In a gentle voice, she said, “I have as much right to call him that as you. Look within yourself; you know it to be true.”

“Fine. Our father, how did he die?”

Aregon had recounted the story upon several occasions. But this time she hid nothing. Instead of just listing the events, she described what she had thought and felt ever since she had found Saphira’s egg, trying to make Roran understand why she did what she did. She had never been so anxious before.

“I was wrong to hide Saphira from the rest of the family,” Aregon concluded, “but I was afraid you might insist on killing her, and I didn’t realize how much danger she put us in. If I had... After Garrow died, I decided to leave in order to track down the Ra’zac, as well as to avoid putting Carvahall in any more danger.” A humorless laugh escaped her. “It didn’t work, but if I had remained, the soldiers would have come far sooner. And then who knows? Galbatorix might have even visited Palancar Valley himself. I may be the reason Garrow—Father—died, but that was never my intention, nor that you and everyone else in Carvahall should suffer because of my choices....” She gestured helplessly. “I did the best I could, Roran.”

“And the rest of it—Brom being a Rider, rescuing Arya at Gil’ead, and killing a Shade at the dwarves’ capital—all that happened?”

“Aye.” As quickly as she could, Aregon summarized what had taken place since she and Saphira set forth with Brom, including their sojourn to Ellesméra and his own transformation during the Agaetí Blödhren.

Leaning forward, Roran rested her elbows on her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed at the dirt between them. It was impossible for Aregon to read her emotions without reaching into her consciousness, which she refused to do, knowing it would be a terrible mistake to invade Roran’s privacy.

Roran was silent for so long, Aregon began to wonder if she would ever respond. Then: “You have made mistakes, but they are no greater than my own. Garrow died because you kept Saphira secret. Many more have

died because I refused to give myself up to the Empire.... We are equally guilty.” She looked up, then slowly extended her right hand. “Sister?”

“Sister,” said Aregon.

She gripped Roran’s forearm, and they pulled each other into a rough embrace, wrestling to and fro as they used to do at home. When they separated, Aregon had to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Galbatorix should surrender now that we’re together again,” she joked. “Who can stand against the two of us?” She lowered herself back onto the bedding. “Now you tell me, how did the Ra’zac capture Katrina?”

All happiness vanished from Roran’s face. She began to speak in a low monotone, and Aregon listened with growing amazement as she wove an epic of attacks, sieges, and betrayal, of leaving Carvahall, crossing the Spine, and razing the docks of Teirm, of sailing through a monstrous whirlpool.

When at last she finished, Aregon said, “You are greater than I. I couldn’t have done half those things. Fight, yes, but not convince everyone to follow me.”

“I had no choice. When they took Katrina—” Roran’s voice broke. “I could either give up and die, or I could try to escape Galbatorix’s trap, no matter the cost.” She fixed her burning eyes on Aregon. “I have lied and burned and slaughtered to get here. I no longer have to worry about protecting everyone from Carvahall; the Varden will see to that. Now I have only one goal in life, to find and rescue Katrina, if she’s not already dead. Will you help me, Aregon?”

Reaching over, Aregon grabbed her saddlebags from the corner of the tent—where the Varden had deposited them—and removed a wooden bowl and the silver flask of enchanted faelnirv Oromis had given her. She took a small sip of the liqueur to revitalize herself and gasped as it raced down her throat, making her nerves tingle with cold fire. Then she poured faelnirv into the bowl until it formed a shallow pool the width of her hand.

“Watch.” Gathering up her burst of new energy, Aregon said, “Draumr kópa.”

The liqueur shimmered and turned black. After a few seconds, a thin key of light appeared in the center of the bowl, revealing Katrina. She lay slumped against an invisible wall, her hands suspended above her with invisible manacles and her copper hair splayed like a fan across her back.

“She’s alive!” Roran hunched over the bowl, grasping at it as if she thought she could dive through the faelnirv and join Katrina. Her hope and determination melded with a look of such tender affection, Aregon knew that only death could stop Roran from trying to free her.

Unable to sustain the spell any longer, Aregon let the image fade away. She leaned against the wall of the tent for support. “Aye,” she said wearily, “she’s alive. And chances are, she’s imprisoned in Helgrind, in the Ra’zac’s lair.” Aregon grasped Roran by the shoulders. “The answer to your question, brother, is yes. I will travel to Dras-Leona with you. I will help you rescue Katrina. And then, together, you and I shall kill the Ra’zac and avenge our father.”

LXX

INHERITANCE

Murtagh grinned. Then he said, “Thrysta vindr,” and a hard ball of air coalesced between them and struck Aregon in the middle of her chest, tossing her twenty feet across the plateau.

Aregon heard Saphira growl as she landed on her back. Her vision flashed red and white, then she curled into a ball and waited for the pain to recede. Any delight she felt in Murtagh’s reappearance was overwhelmed by the macabre circumstances of their meeting. A unstable mixture of shock, confusion, and anger boiled within her.

Lowering her sword, Murtagh pointed at Aregon with his steel-encased hand, curling every finger but his index into a spiny fist. “You never would give up.”

A chill crept along Aregon’s spine, for she recognized the scene from her premonition while rafting the Az Ragni to Hedarth: A person sprawled in the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail—their face concealed behind an upthrown arm. An armored hand entered Aregon’s view and pointed at the downed woman with all the authority of fate itself. Past and future had converged. Now Aregon’s doom would be decided.

Pushing herself to her feet, she coughed and said, “Murtagh... how can you be alive? I watched the Urgals drag you underground. I tried to scry you but saw only darkness.”

Murtagh uttered a mirthless laugh. “You saw nothing, just as I saw nothing the times I tried to scry you during my days in Urû’baen.”

“You died, though!” shouted Aregon, almost incoherent. “You died under Farthen Dûr. Arya found your bloody clothes in the tunnels.”

A shadow darkened Murtagh’s face. “No, I did not die. It was the Twins’ doing, Aregon. They took control of a group of Urgals and arranged the ambush in order to kill Ajihad and capture me. Then they ensorcelled me so I could not escape and spirited me off to Urû’baen.”

Aregon shook her head, unable to comprehend what had happened. “But why did you agree to serve Galbatorix? You told me you hated him. You told me—”

“Agree!” Murtagh laughed again, and this time his outburst contained an edge of madness. “I did not agree. First Galbatorix punished me for spiting his years of protection during my upbringing in Urû’baen, for defying his will and running away. Then he extracted everything I knew about you, Saphira, and the Varden.”

“You betrayed us! I was mourning you, and you betrayed us!”

“I had no choice.”

“Ajihad was right to lock you up. He should have let you rot in your cell, then none of this—”

“I had no choice!” snarled Murtagh. “And after Thorn hatched for me, Galbatorix forced both of us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient language. We cannot disobey him now.”

Pity and disgust welled inside of Aregon. “You have become your father.”

A strange gleam leaped into Murtagh’s eyes. “No, not my father. I’m stronger than Morzan ever was. Galbatorix taught me things about magic you’ve never even dreamed of.... Spells so powerful, the elves dare not utter them, cowards that they are. Words in the ancient language that were lost until Galbatorix discovered them. Ways to manipulate energy... Secrets, terrible secrets, that can destroy your enemies and fulfill all your desires.”

Aregon thought back to some of Oromis’s lessons and retorted, “Things that should remain secrets.”

“If you knew, you would not say that. Brom was a dabbler, nothing more. And the elves, bah! All they can do is hide in their forest and wait to be conquered.” Murtagh ran his eyes over Aregon. “You look like an elf now. Did Islanzadí do that to you?” When Aregon remained silent, Murtagh smiled and shrugged. “No matter. I’ll learn the truth soon enough.” He stopped, frowned, then looked to the east.

Following his gaze, Aregon saw the Twins standing at the front of the Empire, casting balls of energy into the midst of the Varden and the dwarves. The curtains of smoke made it difficult to tell, but Aregon was sure the hairless magicians were grinning and laughing as they slaughtered the men with whom they once pledged solemn friendship. What the Twins failed to notice—and what was clearly visible to Aregon and Murtagh from their vantage point—was that Roran was crawling toward them from the side.

Aregon’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized her cousin. You fool! Get away from them! You’ll be killed.

Just as she opened her mouth to cast a spell that would transport Roran out of danger—no matter the cost—Murtagh said, “Wait. I want to see what she’ll do.”

“Why?”

A bleak smile crossed Murtagh’s face. “The Twins enjoyed tormenting me when I was their captive.”

Aregon glanced at him, suspicious. “You won’t hurt her? You won’t warn the Twins?”

“Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur’tugal.” Upon my word as a Rider.

Together they watched as Roran hid behind a mound of bodies. Aregon stiffened as the Twins looked toward the pile. For a moment, it seemed they had spotted her, then they turned away and Roran jumped up. She swung her hammer and bashed one of the Twins in the head, cracking open his skull. The remaining Twin fell to the ground, convulsing, and emitted a wordless scream until he too met his end under Roran’s hammer.

Then Roran planted her foot upon the corpses of her foes, lifted her hammer over her head, and bellowed her victory.

“What now?” demanded Aregon, turning away from the battlefield. “Are you here to kill me?”

“Of course not. Galbatorix wants you alive.”

“What for?”

Murtagh’s lips quirked. “You don’t know? Ha! There’s a fine jest. It’s not because of you; it’s because of her. ” He jabbed a finger at Saphira. “The dragon inside Galbatorix’s last egg, the last dragon egg in the world, is male. Saphira is the only female dragon in existence. If she breeds, she will be the mother of her entire race. Do you see now? Galbatorix doesn’t want to eradicate the dragons. He wants to use Saphira to rebuild the Riders. He can’t kill you, either of you, if his vision is to become reality.... And what a vision it is, Aregon. You should hear him describe it, then you might not think so badly of him. Is it evil that he wants to unite Alagaësia under a single banner, eliminate the need for war, and restore the Riders?”

“He’s the one who destroyed the Riders in the first place!”

“And for good reason,” asserted Murtagh. “They were old, fat, and corrupt. The elves controlled them and used them to subjugate humans. They had to be removed so that we could start anew.”

A furious scowl contorted Aregon’s features. She paced back and forth across the plateau, her breathing heavy, then gestured at the battle and said, “How can you justify causing so much suffering on the basis of a madman’s ravings? Galbatorix has done nothing but burn and slaughter and amass power for himself. He lies. He murders. He manipulates. You know this! It’s why you refused to work for him in the first place.” Aregon paused, then adopted a gentler tone: “I can understand that you were compelled to act against your will and that you aren’t responsible for killing Hrothgar. You can try to escape, though. I’m sure that Arya and I could devise a way to neutralize the bonds Galbatorix has laid upon you.... Join me, Murtagh. You could do so much for the Varden. With us, you would be praised and admired, instead of cursed, feared, and hated.”

For a moment, as Murtagh gazed down at his notched sword, Aregon hoped he would accept. Then Murtagh said in a low voice, “You cannot help me, Aregon. No one but Galbatorix can release us from our oaths, and he will never do that.... He knows our true names, Aregon.... We are his slaves forever.”

Though she wanted to, Aregon could not deny the sympathy she felt for Murtagh’s plight. With the utmost gravity, she said, “Then let us kill the two of you.”

“Kill us! Why should we allow that?”

Aregon chose her words with care: “It would free you from Galbatorix’s control. And it would save the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Isn’t that a noble enough cause to sacrifice yourself for?”

Murtagh shook his head. “Maybe for you, but life is still too sweet for me to part with it so easily. No stranger’s life is more important than Thorn’s or my own.”

As much as she hated it—hated the entire situation, in fact—Aregon knew then what had to be done. Renewing her attack on Murtagh’s mind, she leaped forward, both feet leaving the ground as she lunged toward

Murtagh, intending to stab him through the heart.

“Letta!” barked Murtagh.

Aregon dropped back to the ground as invisible bands clamped around her arms and legs, immobilizing her. To her right, Saphira discharged a jet of rippling fire and sprang at Murtagh like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

“Rïsa!” commanded Murtagh, extending a clawlike hand as if to catch her.

Saphira yelped with surprise as Murtagh’s incantation stopped her in midair and held her in place, floating several feet above the plateau. No matter how much she wriggled, she could not touch the ground, nor could she fly any higher.

How can he still be human and have the strength to do that? Wondered Aregon. Even with my new abilities, such a task would leave me gasping for air and unable to walk. Relying upon her experience counteracting Oromis’s spells, Aregon said, “Brakka du vanyalí sem huildar Saphira un eka!”

Murtagh made no attempt to stop her, only gave her a flat stare, as if he found Aregon’s resistance a pointless inconvenience. Baring her teeth, Aregon redoubled her efforts. Her hands went cold, her bones ached, and her pulse slowed as the magic sapped her energy. Without being asked, Saphira joined forces with her, granting her access to the formidable resources of her body.

Five seconds passed....

Twenty seconds... A thick vein pulsed on Murtagh’s neck.

A minute…

A minute and a half... Involuntary tremors racked Aregon. Her quadriceps and hamstrings fluttered, and her legs would have given way if she were free to move.

Two minutes passed....

At last Aregon was forced to release the magic, else she risked falling unconscious and passing into the void. She sagged, utterly spent.

She had been afraid before, but only because she thought she might fail. Now she was afraid because she did not know what Murtagh was capable of.

“You cannot hope to compete with me,” said Murtagh. “No one can, except for Galbatorix.” Walking up to Aregon, he pointed his sword at Aregon’s neck, pricking her skin. Aregon resisted the impulse to flinch. “It would be so easy to take you back to Urû’baen.”

Aregon gazed deep into his eyes. “Don’t. Let me go.”

“You just tried to kill me.”

“And you would have done the same in my position.” When Murtagh remained silent and expressionless, Aregon said, “We were friends once. We fought together. Galbatorix can’t have twisted you so much that you’ve forgotten.... If you do this, Murtagh, you’ll be lost forever.”

A long minute passed where the only sound was the hue and cry of the clashing armies. Blood trickled down Aregon’s neck from where the sword point cut her. Saphira lashed her tail with helpless rage.

Finally, Murtagh said, “I was ordered to try and capture you and Saphira.” He paused. “I have tried.... Make sure we don’t cross paths again. Galbatorix will have me swear additional oaths in the ancient language that will prevent me from showing you such mercy when next we meet.”

He lowered his sword.

“You’re doing the right thing,” said Aregon. She tried to step back but was still held in place.

“Perhaps. But before I let you go...” Reaching out, Murtagh pried Zar’roc from Aregon’s fist and unbuckled Zar’roc’s red sheath from the belt of Beloth the Wise. “If I have become my father, then I will have my father’s blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all our enemies. It is only right, then, that I should also wield the sword Misery. Misery and Thorn, a fit match. Besides, Zar’roc should have gone to Morzan’s eldest child, not his youngest. It is mine by right of birth.”

A cold pit formed in Aregon’s stomach. It can’t be.

A cruel smile appeared on Murtagh’s face. “I never told you my mother’s name, did I? And you never told me yours. I’ll say it now: Selena. Selena was my mother and your mother. Morzan was our father. The Twins figured out the connection while they were digging around in your head. Galbatorix was quite interested to learn that particular piece of information.”

“You’re lying!” cried Aregon. She could not bear the thought of being Morzan’s daughter. Did Brom know? Does Oromis know?... Why didn’t they tell me? She remembered, then, Angela predicting that someone in her family would betray her. She was right.

Murtagh merely shook his head and repeated his words in the ancient language, then put his lips to Aregon’s ear and whispered, “You and I, we are the same, Aregon. Mirror images of one another. You can’t deny it.”

“You’re wrong,” growled Aregon, struggling against the spell. “We’re nothing alike. I don’t have a scar on my back anymore.”

Murtagh recoiled as if he had been stung, his face going hard and cold. He lifted Zar’roc and held it upright before his chest. “So be it. I take my inheritance from you, sister. Farewell.”

Then he retrieved his helm from the ground and pulled himself onto Thorn. Not once did he look at Aregon as the dragon crouched, raised its wings, and flew off the plateau and into the north. Only after Thorn vanished below the horizon did the web of magic release Aregon and Saphira. Saphira’s talons clicked on the stone as she landed. She crawled over to Aregon and touched her on the arm with her snout. Are you all right, little one?

I’m fine. But she was not, and she knew it.

Walking to the edge of the plateau, Aregon surveyed the Burning Plains and the aftermath of the battle, for the battle was over. With the death of the Twins, the Varden and dwarves regained lost ground and were able to rout the formations of confused soldiers, herding them into the river or chasing them back from whence they came.

Though the bulk of their forces remained intact, the Empire had sounded the retreat, no doubt to regroup and prepare for a second attempt to invade Surda. In their wake, they left piles of tangled corpses from both sides of the conflict, enough humans and dwarves to populate an entire city. Thick black smoke roiled off the bodies that had fallen into the peat fires.

Now that the fighting had subsided, the hawks and eagles, the crows and ravens, descended like a shroud over the field.

Aregon closed her eyes, tears leaking from under the lids.

LXIX

ELDEST

Aregon barely noticed as Saphira carried her back into the swirling confusion of the battle. She had known that Roran was at sea, but it never occurred to her that Roran might be heading for Surda, nor that they would reunite in this manner. And Roran’s eyes! Her eyes seemed to bore into Aregon, questioning, relieved, enraged...accusing. In them, Aregon saw that her cousin had learned of Aregon’s role in Garrow’s death and had not yet forgiven her.

It was only when a sword bounced off her greaves that Aregon returned her attention to her surroundings. She unleashed a hoarse shout and slashed downward, cutting away the soldier who struck her. Cursing herself for being so careless, Aregon reached out to Trianna and said, No one on that ship is an enemy. Spread the word that they’re not to be attacked. Ask Nasuada if, as a favor to us, she can send a herald to explain the situation to them and see that they stay away from the fighting.

As you wish, Argetlam.

From the western flank of the battle, where she alighted, Saphira traversed the Burning Plains in a few giant leaps, stopping before Hrothgar and his dwarves. Dismounting, Aregon went to the king, who said, “Hail, Argetlam! Hail, Saphira! The elves seem to have done more for you than they promised.” Beside him stood Orik.

“No, sir, it was the dragons.”

“Really? I must hear your adventures once our bloody work here is done. I’m glad you accepted my offer to become Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. It is an honor to have you as mine kin.”

“And you mine.”

Hrothgar laughed, then turned to Saphira and said, “I still haven’t forgotten your vow to mend Isidar Mithrim, dragon. Even now, our artisans are assembling the star sapphire in the center of Tronjheim. I look forward to seeing it whole once again.”

She bowed her head. As I promised, so it shall be.

After Aregon repeated her words, Hrothgar reached out with a gnarled finger and tapped one of the metal plates on her side. “I see you wear our armor. I hope it has served you well.”

Very well, King Hrothgar, said Saphira through Aregon. It has saved me many an injury.

Hrothgar straightened and lifted Volund, a twinkle in his deep-set eyes. “Well then, shall we march out and test it once again in the forge of war?” He looked back at his warriors and shouted, “Akh sartos oen dûrgrimst!”

“Vor Hrothgarz korda! Vor Hrothgarz korda!”

Aregon looked at Orik, who translated with a mighty yell, “By Hrothgar’s hammer!” Joining the chant, Aregon ran with the dwarf king toward the crimson ranks of soldiers, Saphira by her side.

Now at last, with the help of the dwarves, the battle turned in favor of the Varden. Together they pushed back the Empire, dividing them, crushing them, forcing Galbatorix’s vast army to abandon positions they had held since morn. Their efforts were helped by the fact that more of Angela’s poisons had taken effect. Many of the Empire’s officers behaved irrationally, giving orders that made it easier for the Varden to penetrate deeper into the army, sowing chaos as they went. The soldiers seemed to realize that fortune no longer smiled upon them, for hundreds surrendered, or defected outright and turned on their former comrades, or threw down their weapons and fled.

And the day passed into the late afternoon.

Aregon was in the midst of fighting two soldiers when a flaming javelin roared past overhead and buried itself in one of the Empire’s command tents twenty yards away, igniting the fabric. Dispatching her opponents, Aregon glanced back and saw dozens of fiery missiles arcing out from the ship on the Jiet River. What are you playing at, Roran? wondered Aregon before charging the next batch of soldiers.

Soon afterward, a horn echoed from the rear of the Empire’s army, then another and another. Someone began to pound a sonorous drum, the peals of which stilled the field as everyone looked about for the source of the beat. Even as Aregon watched, an ominous figure detached itself from the horizon in the north and rose up in the lurid sky over the Burning Plains. The gore-crows scattered before the barbed black shadow, which balanced motionless upon the thermals. At first Aregon thought it a Lethrblaka, one of the Ra’zac’s mounts. Then a ray of light escaped the clouds and struck the figure crossways from the west.

A red dragon floated above them, glowing and sparkling in the sunbeam like a bed of blood-red coals. His wing membranes were the color of wine held before a lantern. His claws and teeth and the spikes along his spine were white as snow. In his vermilion eyes there gleamed a terrible glee. On his back was fixed a saddle, and in that saddle sat a man garbed in polished steel armor and armed with a hand-and-a-half sword.

Dread clutched at Aregon. Galbatorix managed to get another dragon to hatch!

Then the man in steel raised his left hand and a shaft of crackling ruby energy sprang from his palm and smote Hrothgar on the breast. The dwarf spellcasters cried out with agony as the energy from their bodies was consumed trying to block the attack. They collapsed, dead, then Hrothgar clutched his heart and toppled to the ground. The dwarves gave a great groan of despair as they saw their king fall.

“No!” cried Aregon, and Saphira roared in protest. She glared with hate at the enemy Rider. I’ll kill you for that.

Aregon knew that, as they were, she and Saphira were too tired to confront such a mighty opponent. Glancing around, Aregon spotted a horse lying in the mud, a spear through its side. The stallion was still alive. Aregon put her hand on its neck and murmured, Sleep, brother. Then she transferred the horse’s remaining vitality into herself and Saphira. It was not enough energy to restore all their strength, but it soothed their aching muscles and stopped their limbs from shaking.

Rejuvenated, Aregon leaped onto Saphira, shouting, “Orik, take command of your kinsmen!” Across the field, she saw Arya gaze at her with concern. Aregon put her out of her mind as she tightened the saddle straps around her legs. Then Saphira launched herself toward the red dragon, pumping her wings at a furious rate to gain the necessary speed.

I hope you remember your lessons with Glaedr, Aregon said. She tightened her grip on her shield.

Saphira did not answer her but roared out with her thoughts at the other dragon, Traitor! Egg breaker, oath breaker, murderer! Then as one, she and Aregon assaulted the minds of the pair, seeking to overwhelm their defenses. The consciousness of the Rider felt strange to Aregon, as if it contained multitudes; scores of distinct voices whispered in the caverns of his mind, like imprisoned spirits begging for release.

The instant they made contact, the Rider retaliated with a blast of pure force greater than any even Oromis was capable of summoning. Aregon retreated deep behind her own barriers, frantically reciting a scrap of doggerel

Oromis taught her to use in such predicaments:

Under a cold and empty winter sky

Stood a wee, small man with a silver sword.

He jumped and stabbed in a fevered frenzy,

Fighting the shadows massed before him....

The siege on Aregon’s mind abated as Saphira and the red dragon crashed together, two incandescent meteors colliding head-on. They grappled, kicking each other’s bellies with their hind legs. Their talons produced hideous screeches as they grated against Saphira’s armor and the red dragon’s flat scales. The red dragon was smaller than Saphira, but thicker in his legs and shoulders. He managed to kick her off for a moment, then they closed again, each struggling to get their jaws around the other’s neck.

It was all Aregon could do to keep hold of Zar’roc as the dragons tumbled toward the ground, battering one another with terrible blows from their feet and tails. No more than fifty yards above the Burning Plains, Saphira and the red dragon disengaged, struggling to regain altitude. Once she halted her descent, Saphira reared her head, like a snake about to strike, and loosed a thick torrent of fire.

It never reached its destination; twelve feet from the red dragon, the fire bifurcated and passed harmlessly on either side. Blast it, thought Aregon. Even as the red dragon opened its maw to retaliate, Aregon cried, “Skölir nosu fra brisingr!” She was just in time. The conflagration swirled around them but did not even scorch Saphira’s scales.

Now Saphira and the red dragon raced up through the striated smoke into the clear, chill sky beyond, darting back and forth as they tried to climb above their opponent. The red dragon nipped Saphira’s tail, and she and Aregon yelped with shared pain. Panting from the effort, Saphira executed a tight backward loop, ending up behind the dragon, who then pivoted to the left and tried to spiral up and over Saphira.

While the dragons dueled with increasingly complex acrobatics, Aregon became aware of a disturbance on the Burning Plains: the spellcasters of Du Vrangr Gata were beset by two new magicians from the Empire.  These magicians were far more powerful than those who had preceded them. They had already killed one of Du Vrangr Gata and were battering past the barriers of a second. Aregon heard Trianna scream with her mind, Shadeslayer! You have to help us! We can’t stop them. They’ll kill all the Varden. Help us, it’s the—

Her voice was lost to her as the Rider stabbed at her consciousness.

“This must end,” spat Aregon between clenched teeth as she strove to withstand the onslaught. Over Saphira’s neck, she saw the red dragon dive toward them, angling beneath Saphira. Aregon dared not open her mind enough to talk with Saphira, so she said out loud, “Catch me!” With two strokes of Zar’roc, she severed the straps around her legs and jumped off Saphira’s back.

This is insane, thought Aregon. She laughed with giddy exhilaration as the feeling of weightlessness took hold of her. The rush of air tore off her helm and made her eyes water and sting. Releasing her shield, Aregon spread out her arms and legs, as Oromis had taught her, in order to stabilize her flight. Below, the steel-clad Rider noticed Aregon’s action. The red dragon shied to Aregon’s left but could not evade her. Aregon lashed out with Zar’roc as the dragon’s flank flashed by, and she felt the blade sink into the creature’s hamstring before her momentum carried her past.

The dragon roared in agony.

The impact of the blow sent Aregon spinning up, down, and around. By the time she managed to stop her rotation, she had plummeted through the cloud cover and was heading toward a swift and fatal landing on the Burning Plains. She could stop herself with magic if she had to, but it would drain her last reserves of energy. She glanced over both her shoulders.

Come on, Saphira, where are you?

As if in answer, she dropped out of the foul smoke, her wings pressed tight against her body. She swooped underneath Aregon and opened her wings a bit to slow her fall. Careful not to impale herself on one of her spikes, Aregon maneuvered herself back into the saddle, welcoming the return of gravity as she pulled out of the dive.

Never do that to me again, she snapped.

Aregon surveyed the steaming blood that laced Zar’roc’s blade. It worked, didn’t it?

Her satisfaction disappeared as she realized that her stunt had placed Saphira at the mercy of the red dragon. He hurtled at her from above, harrying her this way and that as he forced her toward the ground. Saphira tried to maneuver out from under him, but every time she did, he dove at her, biting and buffeting her with his wings in order to make her change course.

The dragons twisted and lunged until their tongues lolled out of their mouths, their tails drooped, and they gave up flapping and merely glided.

Aregon’s mind once again closed to all contact, friendly or not, Aregon said out loud, “Land, Saphira; it’s no good. I’ll fight him on the ground.”

With a grunt of weary resignation, Saphira descended to the nearest flat open area, a small stone plateau set along the western edge of the Jiet River. The water had turned red from the blood pouring into it from the battle. Aregon jumped off Saphira once she alighted on the plateau and tested his footing. It was smooth and hard, with nothing to trip on. Aregon nodded, pleased.

A few seconds later, the red dragon rushed by overhead and settled on the opposite side of the plateau. He held his left hind leg off the ground to avoid aggravating his wound: a long gash that nearly severed the muscle. The dragon trembled his entire length, like an injured dog. He tried to hop forward, then stopped and snarled at Aregon.

The enemy Rider unbuckled his legs and slid down the uninjured side of his dragon. Then he walked around the dragon and examined his leg. Aregon let him; she knew how much pain it would cause the man to see

the damage inflicted on his bonded partner. She waited too long, though, for the Rider muttered a few indecipherable words, and within the span of three seconds the dragon’s injury was healed.

Aregon shivered with fear. How could he do that so quickly, and with such a short spell? Still, whoever he might be, the new Rider certainly was not Galbatorix, whose dragon was black.

Aregon clung to that knowledge as she stepped forward to confront the Rider. As they met in the center of the plateau, Saphira and the red dragon circled in the background.

The Rider grasped his sword with both hands and swung it over his head toward Aregon, who lifted Zar’roc to defend herself. Their blades collided with a burst of crimson sparks. Then Aregon shoved back her opponent and started a complex series of blows. She stabbed and parried, dancing on light feet as she forced the steel-clad Rider to retreat toward the edge of the plateau.

When they reached the edge, the Rider held his ground, fending off Aregon’s attacks, no matter how clever. It’s as if he can anticipate my every move, thought Aregon, frustrated. If she were rested, it would have been easy for her to defeat the Rider, but as it was, she could make no headway.

The Rider did not have the speed and strength of an elf, but his technical skill was better than Vanir’s and as good as Aregon’s. Aregon felt a touch of panic when her initial surge of energy began to subside and she had accomplished nothing more than a slight scratch across the Rider’s gleaming breastplate. The last reserves of power stored in Zar’roc’s ruby and the belt of Beloth the Wise were only enough to maintain her exertions for another minute. Then the Rider took a step forward. Then another. And before Aregon knew it, they had returned to the center of the plateau, where they stood facing each other, exchanging blows.

Zar’roc grew so heavy in her hand, Aregon could barely lift it. Her shoulder burned, she gasped for breath, and sweat poured off her face. Not even her desire to avenge Hrothgar could help her to overcome her exhaustion.

At last Aregon slipped and fell. Determined not to be killed lying down, she rolled back onto her feet and stabbed at the Rider, who knocked aside Zar’roc with a lazy flick of his wrist.

The way the Rider flourished his sword afterward—spinning it in a quick circle by his side—suddenly seemed familiar to Aregon, as did all his preceding swordsmanship. She stared with growing horror at his enemy’s hand-and-a-half sword, then back up at the eye slits of his mirrored helm, and shouted, “I know you!”

LXVIII

CONVERGENCE

Roran stood at the prow of the Dragon Wing and listened to the oars swish through the water. She had just finished a stint rowing and a cold, jagged ache permeated her right shoulder. Will I always have to deal with this reminder of the Ra’zac? She wiped the sweat from her face and ignored the discomfort, concentrating instead on the river ahead, which was obscured by a bank of sooty clouds.

Elain joined her at the railing. She rested a hand on her swollen belly. “The water looks evil,” she said. “Perhaps we should have stayed in Dauth, rather than drag ourselves in search of more trouble.”

Roran feared she spoke the truth. After the Boar’s Eye, they had sailed east from the Southern Isles back to the coast and then up the mouth of the Jiet River to Surda’s port city of Dauth. By the time they made landfall, their stores were exhausted and the villagers sickly.

Roran had every intention of staying in Dauth, especially after they received an enthusiastic welcome from its governor, Lady Alarice. But that was before she was told about Galbatorix’s army. If the Varden were defeated, she would never see Katrina again. So, with the help of Jeod, she convinced Horst and many of the other villagers that if they wanted to live in Surda, safe from the Empire, they had to row up the Jiet River and assist the Varden. It was a difficult task, but in the end Roran prevailed. And once they told Lady Alarice about their quest, she gave them all the supplies they wanted.

Since then, Roran often wondered if she made the right choice. By now everyone hated living on the Dragon Wing. People were tense and shorttempered, a situation only aggravated by the knowledge they were sailing toward a battle. Was it all selfishness on my part? wondered Roran. Did I really do this for the benefit of the villagers, or only because it will bring me one step closer to finding Katrina?

“Perhaps we should have,” she said to Elain.

Together they watched as a thick layer of smoke gathered overhead, darkening the sky, obscuring the sun, and filtering the remaining light so that everything below was colored a nauseating hue of orange. It produced an eerie twilight the likes of which Roran had never imagined. The sailors on deck looked about fearfully and muttered charms of protection, pulling out stone amulets to ward off the evil eye.

“Listen,” said Elain. She tilted her head. “What is that?”

Roran strained her ears and caught the faint ring of metal striking metal.

“That,” she said, “is the sound of our destiny.” Twisting, she shouted back over her shoulder, “Captain, there’s fighting just ahead!”

“Man the ballistae!” roared Uthar. “Double-time on those oars, Bonden. An’ every able-bodied person jack among you better be ready or you’ll be using your guts for pillows!”

Roran remained where she was as the Dragon Wing exploded with activity. Despite the increase in noise, she could still hear swords and shields clanging together in the distance. The screams were audible now, as were the roars of some giant beast.

She glanced over as Jeod joined them at the prow. The merchant’s face was pale. “Have you ever been in battle before?” asked Roran.

The knob in Jeod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and shook his head. “I got into plenty of fights along with Brom, but never anything of this scale.”

“A first for both of us, then.”

The bank of smoke thinned on the right, providing them with a glimpse of a dark land that belched forth fire and putrid orange vapor and was covered with masses of struggling people. It was impossible to tell who was the Empire and who was the Varden, but it was apparent to Roran that the battle could tip in either direction given the right nudge. We can provide that nudge.

Then a voice echoed over the water as someone shouted, “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

“You should go belowdecks,” said Roran to Elain. “It won’t be safe for you here.” She nodded and hurried to the fore hatchway, where she climbed down the ladder, closing the opening behind her. A moment later, Horst bounded up to the prow and handed Roran one of Fisk’s shields.

“Thought you might need that,” said Horst.

“Thanks. I—”

Roran stopped as the air around them vibrated, as if from a mighty concussion. Thud. Her teeth jarred together. Thud. Her ears hurt from the pressure. Close upon the heels of the second impact came a third— thud—and with it a raw-throated yell that Roran recognized, for she had heard it many times in her childhood. She looked up and beheld a gigantic sapphire dragon diving out of the shifting clouds. And on the dragon’s back, at the juncture between its neck and shoulders, sat her cousin, Aregon.

It was not the Aregon she remembered, but rather as if an artist had taken her cousin’s base features and enhanced them, streamlined them, making them both more noble and more feline. This Aregon was garbed like royalty, in fine cloth and armor—though tarnished by the grime of war—and in her right hand she wielded a blade of iridescent red. This Aregon, Roran knew, could kill without hesitation. This Aregon was powerful and implacable.... This Aregon could slay the Ra’zac and their mounts and help her to rescue Katrina.

Flaring its translucent wings, the dragon pulled up sharply and hung before the ship. Then Aregon met Roran’s eyes.

Until that moment, Roran had not completely believed Jeod’s story about Aregon and Brom. Now, as she stared at her cousin, a wave of confused emotions washed over her. Aregon is a Rider! It seemed inconceivable that the slight, moody, overeager girl she grew up with had turned into this fearsome warrior. Seeing her alive again filled Roran with unexpected joy. Yet, at the same time, a terrible, familiar anger welled up inside her over Aregon’s role in Garrow’s death and the siege of Carvahall.

In those few seconds, Roran knew not whether she loved or hated Aregon. She stiffened with alarm as a vast and alien being touched her mind.

From that consciousness emanated Aregon’s voice: Roran?

“Aye.”

Think your answers and I’ll hear them. Is everyone from Carvahall with you?

Just about.

How did you... No, we can’t go into it; there’s no time. Stay where you are until the battle is decided. Better yet, go back farther down the river, where the Empire can’t attack you.

We have to talk, Aregon. You have much to answer for.

Aregon hesitated with a troubled expression, then said, I know. But not now, later. With no visible prompting, the dragon veered away from the ship and flew off to the east, vanishing in the haze over the Burning Plains.

In an awed voice, Horst said, “A Rider! A real Rider! I never thought I’d see the day, much less that it would be Aregon.” She shook her head. “I guess you told us the truth, eh, Longshanks?” Jeod grinned in response, looking like a delighted child.

Their words sounded muted to Roran as she stared at the deck, feeling like she was about to explode with tension. A host of unanswerable questions assailed her. She forced herself to ignore them. I can’t think about Aregon now. We have to fight. The Varden must defeat the Empire.

A rising tide of fury consumed her. She had experienced this before, a berserk frenzy that allowed her to overcome nearly any obstacle, to move objects she could not shift ordinarily, to face an enemy in combat and feel no fear. It gripped her now, a fever in her veins, quickening her breath and setting her heart a-pounding.

She pushed herself off the railing, ran the length of the ship to the quarterdeck, where Uthar stood by the wheel, and said, “Ground the ship.”

“What?”

“Ground the ship, I say! Stay here with the rest of the soldiers and use the ballistae to wreak what havoc you can, keep the Dragon Wing from being boarded, and guard our families with your lives. Understand?”

Uthar stared at her with flat eyes, and Roran feared he would not accept the orders. Then the scarred sailor grunted and said, “Aye, aye, Stronghammer.”

Horst’s heavy tread preceded her arrival at the quarterdeck. “What do you intend to do, Roran?”

LXVII

THE STORM BREAKS

The first horizontal rays of dawn already streaked across the land when Trianna said to Aregon, It is time. A surge of energy erased Aregon’s sleepiness. Jumping to her feet, she shouted the word to everyone around her, even as she clambered into Saphira’s saddle, pulling her new bow from its quiver. The Kull and dwarves surrounded Saphira, and together they hurried down the breastwork until they reached the opening that had been cleared during the night.

The Varden poured through the gap, quiet as they could be. Rank upon rank of warriors marched past, their armor and weapons padded with rags so no sound would alert the Empire of their approach. Saphira joined the procession when Nasuada appeared on a roan charger in the midst of the men, Arya and Trianna by her side. The five of them acknowledged each other with quick glances, nothing more.

During the night, the mephitic vapors had accumulated low to the ground, and now the dim morning light gilded the turgid clouds, turning them opaque. Thus, the Varden managed to cross three-quarters of the no-man’s-land before they were seen by the Empire’s sentries. As the alarm horns rang out before them, Nasuada shouted, “Now, Aregon! Tell Orrin to strike. To me, Varden! Fight to win back your homes. Fight to guard your spouses and children! Fight to overthrow Galbatorix! Attack and bathe your blades in the blood of our enemies! Charge!” She spurred her horse forward, and with a great bellow, the people followed, shaking their weapons above their heads.

Aregon conveyed Nasuada’s order to Barden, the spellcaster who rode with King Orrin. A moment later, she heard the drumming of hooves as Orrin and his cavalry—accompanied by the rest of the Kull, who could run as fast as horses—galloped out of the east. They charged into the Empire’s flank, pinning the soldiers against the Jiet River and distracting them long enough for the Varden to cross the remainder of the distance between them without opposition.

The two armies collided with a deafening roar. Pikes clashed against spears, hammers against shields, swords against helms, and above it all whirled the hungry gore-crows uttering their harsh croaks, driven into a frenzy by the smell of fresh meat below.

Aregon’s heart leaped within her chest. I must now kill or be killed. Almost immediately she felt her wards drawing upon her strength as they deflected attacks from Arya, Orik, Nasuada, and Saphira. Saphira held back from the leading edge of the battle, for they would be too exposed to Galbatorix’s magicians at the front. Taking a deep breath, Aregon began to search for those magicians with her mind, firing arrows all the while.

Du Vrangr Gata found the first enemy spellcaster. The instant she was alerted, Aregon reached out to the woman who made the discovery, and from there to the foe she grappled with. Bringing the full power of her will to bear, Aregon demolished the magician’s resistance, took control of his consciousness—doing her best to ignore the man’s terror—determined which troops the man was guarding, and slew the man with one of the twelve words of death. Without pause, Aregon located the minds of each of the now-unprotected soldiers and killed them as well. The Varden cheered as the knot of men went limp.

The ease with which she slew them amazed Aregon. The soldiers had had no chance to escape or fight back. How different from Farthen Dûr, she thought. Though she marveled at the perfection of her skills, the deaths

sickened her. But there was no time to dwell on it.

Recovering from the Varden’s initial assault, the Empire began to man their engines of war: catapults that cast round missiles of hard-baked ceramic, trebuchets armed with barrels of liquid fire, and ballistae that bombarded the attackers with a hail of arrows six feet long. The ceramic balls and the liquid fire caused terrific damage when they landed. One ball exploded against the ground not ten yards from Saphira. As Aregon ducked behind her shield, a jagged fragment spun toward her head, only to be stopped dead in the air by one of her wards. She blinked at the sudden loss of energy.

The engines soon stalled the Varden’s advance, sowing mayhem wherever they aimed. They have to be destroyed if we’re going to last long enough to wear down the Empire, realized Aregon. It would be easy for Saphira to dismantle the machines, but she dared not fly among the soldiers for fear of an attack by magic.

Breaking through the Varden lines, eight soldiers stormed toward Saphira, jabbing at her with pikes. Before Aregon could draw Zar’roc, the dwarves and Kull eliminated the entire group.

“A good fight!” roared Garzhvog.

“A good fight!” agreed Orik with a bloody grin.

Aregon did not use spells against the engines; they would be protected against any conceivable enchantment. Unless... Extending herself, she found the mind of a soldier who tended one of the catapults. Though she was sure the soldier was defended by some magician, Aregon was able to gain dominance over him and direct his actions from afar. She guided the man up to the weapon, which was being loaded, then had him use his sword to hack at the skein of twisted rope that powered the machine.

The rope was too thick to sever before the soldier was dragged away by his comrades, but the damage was already done. With a mighty crack, the partially wound skein broke, sending the arm of the catapult flying backward and injuring several men. Her lips curled in a grim smile, Aregon proceeded to the next catapult and, in short order, disabled the remainder of the engines.

Returning to herself, Aregon became aware of dozens of the Varden collapsing around Saphira; one of Du Vrangr Gata had been overwhelmed.

She uttered a dreadful curse and flung herself back along the trail of magic as she searched for the man who cast the fatal spell, entrusting the welfare of her body to Saphira and her guards.

For over an hour, Aregon hunted Galbatorix’s magicians, but to little avail, for they were wily and cunning and did not directly attack her. Their reticence puzzled Aregon until she tore from the mind of one spellcaster— moments before he committed suicide—the thought,... ordered not to kill you or the dragon... not to kill you or the dragon.

That answers my question, she said to Saphira, but why does Galbatorix still want us alive? We’ve made it clear we support the Varden.

Before she could respond, Nasuada appeared before them, her face streaked with filth and gore, her shield covered with dents, blood sheeting down her left leg from a wound on her thigh. “Aregon,” she gasped. “I need you, both of you, to fight, to show yourselves and embolden the men... to frighten the soldiers.”

Her condition shocked Aregon. “Let me heal you first,” she cried, afraid Nasuada might faint. I should have put more wards around her.

“No! I can wait, but we are lost unless you stem the tide of soldiers.” Her eyes were glazed and empty, blank holes in her face. “We need... a Rider.” She swayed in her saddle.

Aregon saluted her with Zar’roc. “You have one, my Lady.”

“Go,” she said, “and may what gods there are watch over you.”

Aregon was too high on Saphira’s back to strike her enemies below, so she dismounted and positioned herself by her right paw. To Orik and Garzhvog, she said, “Protect Saphira’s left side. And whatever you do, don’t get in our way.”

“You will be overrun, Firesword.”

“No,” said Aregon, “I won’t. Now take your places!” As they did, she put her hand on Saphira’s leg and looked her in one clear-cut sapphire eye.

Shall we dance, friend of my heart?

We shall, little one.

Then they merged their identities to a greater degree than ever before, vanquishing all differences between them to become a single entity. They bellowed, leaped forward, and forged a path to the front line.

Once there, Aregon could not tell from whose mouth emanated the ravenous jet of flame that consumed a dozen soldiers, cooking them in their mail, nor whose arm it was that brought Zar’roc down in an arc, cleaving a soldier’s helm in half.

The metallic scent of blood clogged the air, and curtains of smoke wafted over the Burning Plains, alternately concealing and revealing the knots, clumps, ranks, and battalions of thrashing bodies. Overhead, the carrion birds waited for their meal and the sun climbed in the firmament toward noon.

From the minds of those around them, Aregon and Saphira caught glimpses of how they appeared. Saphira was always noticed first: a great ravening creature with claws and fangs dyed red, who slew all in her path with swipes of her paws and lashes of her tail and with billowing waves of flame that engulfed entire platoons of soldiers. Her brilliant scales glittered like stars and nearly blinded her foes with their reflected light.

Next they saw Aregon running alongside Saphira. She moved faster than the soldiers could react and, with strength beyond men, splintered shields with a single blow, rent armor, and clove the swords of those who opposed her. Shot and dart cast at her fell to the pestilent ground ten feet away, stopped by her wards.

It was harder for Aregon—and, by extension, Saphira—to fight her own race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dûr. Every time she saw a frightened face or looked into a soldier’s mind, she thought, This could be me. But she and Saphira could afford no mercy; if a soldier stood before them, they died.

Three times they sallied forth and three times Aregon and Saphira slew every person in the Empire’s first few ranks before retreating to the main body of the Varden to avoid being surrounded. By the end of their last attack, Aregon had to reduce or eliminate certain wards around Arya, Orik, Nasuada, Saphira, and herself in order to keep the spells from exhausting her too quickly. For though her strength was great, so too were the demands of battle.

Ready? she asked Saphira after a brief respite. She growled an affirmative. A cloud of arrows whistled toward Aregon the instant she dove back into combat. Fast as an elf, she dodged the bulk of them—since her magic no longer protected her from such missiles—caught twelve on her shield, and stumbled as one struck her belly and one her side. Neither shaft pierced her armor, but they knocked the wind out of her and left bruises the size of apples. Don’t stop! You’ve dealt with worse pain than this before, she told herself.

Rushing a cluster of eight soldiers, Aregon darted from one to the next, knocking aside their pikes and jabbing Zar’roc like a deadly bolt of lightning. The fighting had dulled her reflexes, though, and one soldier managed to drive his pike through Aregon’s hauberk, slicing her left triceps. The soldiers cringed as Saphira roared.

Aregon took advantage of the distraction to fortify herself with energy stored within the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel and then to kill the three remaining soldiers.

Sweeping her tail over Aregon, Saphira knocked a score of men out of her way. In the lull that followed, Aregon looked over at her throbbing arm and said, “Waíse heill.” She also healed her bruises, relying upon Zar’roc’s ruby, as well as the diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Then the two of them pressed onward.

Aregon and Saphira choked the Burning Plains with mountains of their enemies, and yet the Empire never faltered or fell back. For every person they killed, another stepped forth to take their place. A sense of hopelessness engulfed Aregon as the mass of soldiers gradually forced the Varden to retreat toward their own camp. She saw her despair mirrored in the faces of Nasuada, Arya, King Orrin, and even Angela when she passed them in battle.

All our training and we still can’t stop the Empire, raged Aregon. There are just too many soldiers! We can’t keep this up forever. And Zar’roc and the belt are almost depleted.

You can draw energy from your surroundings if you have to.

I won’t, not unless I kill another of Galbatorix’s magicians and can take it from the soldiers. Otherwise, I’ll just be hurting the rest of the Varden, since there are no plants or animals here I can use to support us.

As the long hours dragged by, Aregon grew sore and weary and—stripped of many of her arcane defenses—accumulated dozens of minor injuries. Her left arm went numb from the countless blows that hammered her mangled shield. A scratch on her forehead kept blinding her with rivulets of hot, sweat-mixed blood. She thought one of her fingers might be broken.

Saphira fared no better. The soldiers’ armor tore the inside of her mouth, dozens of swords and arrows cut her unprotected wings, and a javelin punctured one of her own plates of armor, wounding her in the shoulder.

Aregon saw the spear coming and tried to deflect it with a spell but was too slow. Whenever Saphira moved, she splattered the ground with hundreds of drops of blood.

Beside them, three of Orik’s warriors fell, and two of the Kull.

And the sun began its descent toward evening.

As Aregon and Saphira prepared for their seventh and final assault, a trumpet sounded in the east, loud and clear, and King Orrin shouted, “The dwarves are here! The dwarves are here!”

Dwarves? Aregon blinked and glanced around, confused. She saw nothing but soldiers. Then a jolt of excitement raced through her as she understood.

The dwarves! She climbed onto Saphira and she jumped into the air, hanging for a moment on her tattered wings as they surveyed the battlefield.

It was true—a great host marched out of the east toward the Burning Plains. At its head strode King Hrothgar, clad in gold mail, his jeweled helm upon his brow, and Volund, his ancient war hammer, gripped in his iron fist. The dwarf king raised Volund in greeting when he saw Aregon and Saphira.

Aregon howled at the top of her lungs and returned the gesture, brandishing Zar’roc in the air. A surge of renewed vigor made her forget her wounds and feel fierce and determined again. Saphira added her voice to Aregon’s, and the Varden looked to her with hope, while the Empire’s soldiers hesitated with fear.

“What did you see?” cried Orik as Saphira dropped back to earth. “Is it Hrothgar? How many warriors did he bring?”

Ecstatic with relief, Aregon stood in her stirrups and shouted, “Take heart, King Hrothgar is here! And it looks like every single dwarf is behind him! We’ll crush the Empire!” After the soldiers stopped cheering, she added, “Now take your swords and remind these flea-bitten cowards why they should fear us. Charge!”

Just as Saphira leaped toward the soldiers, Aregon heard a second cry, this one from the west: “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

“Blast it,” she snarled. We can’t let a ship land if it’s bringing reinforcements for the Empire. Contacting Trianna, she said, Tell Nasuada that Saphira and I will take care of this. We’ll sink the ship if it’s from Galbatorix.

As you wish, Argetlam, replied the sorceress.

Without hesitation, Saphira took flight, circling high over the trampled, smoking plain. As the relentless clamor of combat faded from her ears, Aregon took a deep breath, feeling her mind clear. Below, she was surprised by how scattered both armies had become. The Empire and the Varden had disintegrated into a series of smaller groups contending against one another over the entire breadth and width of the Burning Plains. It was into this confused tumult that the dwarves inserted themselves, catching the Empire from the side—as Orrin had done earlier with his cavalry.

XLVI

WITCH’S BREW

Night had fallen on the Burning Plains. The roof of opaque smoke covered the moon and stars, plunging the land into profound darkness that was broken only by the sullen glow of the sporadic peat fires, and by the thousands of torches each army lit. From Aregon’s position near the fore of the Varden, the Empire looked a dense nest of uncertain orange lights as large as any city.

As Aregon buckled the last piece of Saphira’s armor onto her tail, she closed her eyes to maintain better contact with the magicians from Du Vrangr Gata. She had to learn to locate them at a moment’s notice; her life would depend on communicating with them in a quick and timely manner.

In turn, the magicians had to learn to recognize the touch of her mind so they did not block her when she needed their assistance.

Aregon smiled and said, “Hello, Orik.” She opened her eyes to see Orik clambering up the low knuckle of rock where she and Saphira sat. The dwarf, who was fully armored, carried his Urgal-horn bow in his left hand.

Hunkering beside Aregon, Orik wiped his brow and shook his head. “How’d you know it was me? I was shielding myself.”

Every consciousness feels different, explained Saphira. Just like no two voices sound exactly the same.

“Ah.”

Aregon asked, “What brings you here?”

Orik shrugged. “It struck me you might appreciate a spot of company in this grim night. Especially since Arya’s otherwise engaged and you don’t have Murtagh with you for this battle.”

And I wish I did, thought Aregon. Murtagh had been the only human who matched Aregon’s skill with a sword, at least before the Agaetí Blödhren. Sparring with him had been one of Aregon’s few pleasures during their time together. I would have enjoyed fighting with you again, old friend.

Remembering how Murtagh was killed—dragged underground by Urgals in Farthen Dûr—forced Aregon to confront a sobering truth: No matter how great a warrior you were, as often as not, pure chance dictated who lived and who died in war.

Orik must have sensed her mood, for he clapped Aregon on the shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine. Just imagine how the soldiers out there feel, knowing they have to face you before long!”

Gratitude made Aregon smile again. “I’m glad you came.”

The tip of Orik’s nose reddened, and he glanced down, rolling his bow between gnarled hands. “Ah, well,” he grumbled, “Hrothgar wouldn’t much like it if I let something happen to you. Besides, we’re foster siblings now, eh?”

Through Aregon, Saphira asked, What about the other dwarves? Aren’t they under your command?

A twinkle sprang into Orik’s eyes. “Why, yes, so they are. And they’ll be joining us before long. Seeing as Aregon’s a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, it’s only right we fight the Empire together. That way, the two of you won’t be so vulnerable; you can concentrate on finding Galbatorix’s magicians instead of defending yourselves from constant attacks.”

“A good idea. Thank you.” Orik grunted an acknowledgment. Then Aregon asked, “What do you think about Nasuada and the Urgals?”

“She made the right choice.”

“You agree with her!”

“I do. I don’t like it any more than you, but I do.”

Silence enveloped them after that. Aregon sat against Saphira and stared out at the Empire, trying to prevent her growing anxiety from overwhelming her. Minutes dragged by. To her, the interminable waiting before a battle was as stressful as the actual fighting. She oiled Saphira’s saddle, polished rust off her hauberk, and then resumed familiarizing herself with the minds of Du Vrangr Gata, anything to pass the time.

Over an hour later, she paused as she sensed two beings approaching from across the no-man’s-land. Angela? Solembum? Puzzled and alarmed, she woke Orik—who had dozed off—and told him what she had discovered.

The dwarf frowned and drew his war ax from his belt. “I’ve only met the herbalist a few times, but she didn’t seem like the sort who would betray us. She’s been welcome among the Varden for decades.”

“We should still find out what she was doing,” said Aregon.

Together they picked their way through the camp to intercept the duo as they approached the fortifications. Angela soon trotted into the light, Solembum at her heels. The witch was muffled in a dark, full-length cloak that allowed her to blend into the mottled landscape. Displaying a surprising amount of alacrity, strength, and flexibility, she clambered over the many rows of breastwork the dwarves had engineered, swinging from pole to pole, leaping over trenches, and finally running helter-skelter down the steep face of the last rampart to stop, panting, by Saphira.

Throwing back the hood of her cloak, Angela flashed them a bright smile. “A welcoming committee! How thoughtful of you.” As she spoke, the werecat shivered along his length, fur rippling. Then his outline blurred as if seen through cloudy water, resolving once more into the nude figure of a shaggy-haired boy. Angela dipped her hand into a leather purse at her belt and passed a child’s tunic and breeches back to Solembum, along with the small black dagger he fought with.

“What were you doing out there?” asked Orik, peering at them with a suspicious gaze.

“Oh, this and that.”

“I think you better tell us,” said Aregon.

Her face hardened. “Is that so? Don’t you trust Solembum and me?”

The werecat bared his pointed teeth.

“Not really,” admitted Aregon, but with a small smile.

“That’s good,” said Angela. She patted her on the cheek. “You’ll live longer. If you must know, then, I was doing my best to help defeat the Empire, only my methods don’t involve yelling and running around with a sword.”

“And what exactly are your methods?” growled Orik.

Angela paused to roll up her cloak into a tight bundle, which she stored in her purse. “I’d rather not say; I want it to be a surprise. You won’t have to wait long to find out. It’ll start in a few hours.”

Orik tugged on his beard. “What will start? If you can’t give us a straight answer, we’ll have to take you to Nasuada. Maybe she can wring some sense out of you.”

“It’s no use dragging me off to Nasuada,” said Angela. “She gave me permission to cross lines.”

“So you say,” challenged Orik, ever more belligerent.

“And so I say,” announced Nasuada, walking up to them from behind, as Aregon knew she would. She also sensed that she was accompanied by four Kull, one of whom was Garzhvog. Scowling, Aregon turned to face them, making no attempt to hide her anger at the Urgals’ presence.

“My Lady,” muttered Aregon.

Orik was not as composed; he jumped back with a mighty oath, grasping his war ax. He quickly realized that they were not under attack and gave Nasuada a terse greeting. But his hand never left the haft of his weapon and his eyes never left the hulking Urgals. Angela seemed to have no such inhibitions. She paid Nasuada the respect due to her, then addressed the Urgals in their own harsh language, to which they answered with evident delight.

Nasuada drew Aregon off to the side so they could have a measure of privacy. There, she said, “I need you to put aside your feelings for a moment and judge what I am about to tell you with logic and reason. Can you do that?” Aregon nodded, stiff-faced. “Good. I’m doing everything I can to ensure we don’t lose tomorrow. It doesn’t matter, though, how well we fight, or how well I lead the Varden, or even if we rout the Empire if you, ” she poked her in the chest, “are killed. Do you understand?” Aregon nodded again. “There’s nothing I can do to protect you if Galbatorix reveals himself; if he does, you will face him alone. Du Vrangr Gata poses no more of a threat to him than they do to you, and I’ll not have them eradicated without reason.”

“I have always known,” said Aregon, “that I would face Galbatorix alone but for Saphira.”

A sad smile touched Nasuada’s lips. She looked very tired in the flickering torchlight. “Well, there’s no reason to invent trouble where none exists. It’s possible Galbatorix isn’t even here.” She did not seem to believe her own words, though. “In any case, I can at least keep you from dying from a sword in the gut. I heard what the dwarves intend to do, and I thought I could improve upon the concept. I asked Garzhvog and three of his rams to be your guards, so long as they agreed—which they have— to let you examine their minds for treachery.”

Aregon went rigid. “You can’t expect me to fight with those monsters. Besides, I already accepted the dwarves’ offer to defend Saphira and me. They would take it poorly if I rejected them in favor of Urgals.”

“Then they can both guard you,” retorted Nasuada. She searched Aregon’s face for a long time, looking for what she could not tell. “Oh, Aregon. I’d hoped you could see past your hate. What else would you do in my position?”

Nasuada sighed when she remained silent. “If anyone has cause to hold a grudge against the Urgals, it is I. They killed my father. Yet I cannot allow that to interfere with deciding what’s best for the Varden.... At least ask Saphira’s opinion before you say yea or nay. I can order you to accept the Urgals’ protection, but I would rather not.”

You’re being foolish, observed Saphira without prompting.

Foolish to not want Kull watching my back?

No, foolish to refuse help, no matter where it comes from, in our present situation. Think. You know what Oromis would do, and you know what they would say. Don’t you trust their judgment?

They can’t be right about everything, said Aregon.

That’s no argument.... Search yourself, Aregon, and tell me whether I speak the truth. You know the correct path. I would be disappointed if you could not bring yourself to embrace it.

Saphira and Nasuada’s cajoling only made Aregon more reluctant to agree. Still, she knew she had no choice. “All right, I’ll let them guard me, but only if I find nothing suspicious in their minds. Will you promise that, after this battle, you won’t make me work with an Urgal again?”

Nasuada shook her head. “I can’t do that, not when it might hurt the Varden.” She paused and said, “Oh, and Aregon?”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“In the event of my death, I have chosen you as my successor. If that should happen, I suggest you rely upon Jörmundur’s advice—she has more experience than the other members of the Council of Elders—and I would expect you to place the welfare of those underneath you before all else. Am I clear, Aregon?”

Her announcement caught Aregon by surprise. Nothing meant more to Nasuada than the Varden. Offering it to her was the greatest act of trust she could make. Her confidence humbled and touched her; she bowed her

head. “I would strive to be as good a leader as you and Ajihad have been. You honor me, Nasuada.”

“Yes, I do.” Turning away from her, she rejoined the others.

Still overwhelmed by Nasuada’s revelation, and finding her anger tempered by it, Aregon slowly walked back to Saphira. She studied Garzhvog and the other Urgals, trying to gauge their mood, but their features were so different from those she was accustomed to, she could discern nothing more than the broadest of emotions. Nor could she find any empathy within herself for the Urgals. To her, they were feral beasts that would kill her as soon as not and were incapable of love, kindness, or even true intelligence. In short, they were lesser beings.

Deep within her mind, Saphira whispered, I’m sure Galbatorix is of the same opinion.

And for good reason, Aregon growled, intending to shock her. Suppressing her revulsion, she said out loud, “Nar Garzhvog, I am told that the four of you agreed to allow me within your minds.”

“That is so, Firesword. Lady Nightstalker told us what was required. We are honored to have the chance to battle alongside such a mighty warrior, and one who has done so much for us.”

“What do you mean? I have killed scores of your kin.” Unbidden, excerpts from one of Oromis’s scrolls rose in Aregon’s memory.She remembered reading that Urgals determined their rank in society through combat, and that it was this practice, above all else, that had led to so many conflicts between Urgals and other races. Which meant, she realized, that if they admired her feats in battle, then they may have accorded her the same status as one of their war chiefs.

“By killing Durza, you freed us from his control. We are in your debt, Firesword. None of our rams will challenge you, and if you visit our halls, you and the dragon, Flametongue, will be welcomed as no outsiders ever before.”

Of all the responses Aregon had expected, gratitude was the last, and it was the one she was least prepared to deal with. Unable to think of anything else, she said, “I won’t forget.” She switched her gaze to the other Urgals, then returned it to Garzhvog and his yellow eyes. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, Rider.”

As Aregon reached toward Garzhvog’s consciousness, it reminded her of how the Twins invaded her mind when she first entered Farthen Dûr.

That observation was swept away as she immersed herself in the Urgal’s identity. The very nature of her search—looking for malevolent intent perhaps hidden somewhere in Garzhvog’s past—meant Aregon had to examine years of memories. Unlike the Twins, Aregon avoided causing deliberate pain, but she was not overly gentle. She could feel Garzhvog flinch with occasional pangs of discomfort. Like dwarves and elves, the mind of an Urgal possessed different elements than a human mind. Its structure emphasized rigidity and hierarchy—a result of the tribes the Urgals organized themselves into—but it felt rough and raw, brutal and cunning: the mind of a wild animal.

Though she made no effort to learn more about Garzhvog as an individual, Aregon could not help absorbing pieces of the Urgal’s life. Garzhvog did not resist. Indeed, he seemed eager to share his experiences, to convince Aregon that Urgals were not her born enemies. We cannot afford to have another Rider rise up who seeks to destroy us, said Garzhvog. Look well, O Firesword, and see if we are truly the monsters you call us....

So many images and sensations flashed between them, Aregon almost lost track: Garzhvog’s childhood with the other members of his brood in a ramshackle village built deep in the heart of the Spine; his dam brushing his hair with an antler comb and singing a soft song; learning to hunt deer and other prey with his bare hands; growing larger and larger until it was apparent that the old blood still flowed in his veins and he would stand over eight feet tall, making him a Kull; the dozens of challenges he made, accepted, and won; venturing out of the village to gain renown, so he might mate, and gradually learning to hate, distrust, and fear—yes, fear —a world that had condemned his race; fighting in Farthen Dûr; discovering they had been manipulated by Durza; and realizing that their only hope of a better life was to put aside old differences, befriend the Varden, and see Galbatorix overthrown. Nowhere was there evidence that Garzhvog lied.

Aregon could not understand what she had seen. Tearing herself from Garzhvog’s mind, she dove into each of the three remaining Urgals. Their memories confirmed the facts presented by Garzhvog. They made no attempt to conceal that they had killed humans, but it had been done at the command of Durza when the sorcerer controlled them, or when fighting humans over food or land. We did what we had to in order to care for our families, they said.

When she finished, Aregon stood before Garzhvog and knew the Urgal’s bloodline was as regal as any prince’s. She knew that, though uneducated, Garzhvog was a brilliant commander and as great a thinker and philosopher as Oromis theirself. He’s certainly brighter than me, admitted Aregon to Saphira. Baring her throat as a sign of respect, she said out loud, “Nar Garzhvog,” and for the first time, she was aware of the lofty origins of the title nar. “I am proud to have you at my side. You may tell the Herndall that so long as the Urgals remain true to their word and do not turn against the Varden, I shall not oppose you.” Aregon doubted that she would ever like an Urgal, but the iron certitude of her prejudice only a few minutes before now seemed ignorant, and she could not retain it in good conscience.

Saphira flicked her on the arm with her barbed tongue, making the mail clink together. It takes courage to admit you were wrong.

Only if you are afraid of looking foolish, and I would have looked far more foolish if I persisted with an erroneous belief.

Why, little one, you just said something wise. Despite her teasing, she could sense her warm pride in what she had accomplished.

“Again, we are in your debt, Firesword,” said Garzhvog. He and the other Urgals pressed their fists against their jutting brows.

Aregon could tell that Nasuada wanted to know the details of what had just transpired but that she restrained herself. “Good. Now that this is settled, I must be off. Aregon, you’ll receive my signal from Trianna when the time has arrived.” With that she strode away into the darkness.

As Aregon settled against Saphira, Orik sidled up to her. “It’s lucky we dwarves are going to be here, eh? We’ll watch the Kull like hawks, we will. We won’t let them catch you while your back is turned. The moment they attack, we’ll cut their legs out from under them.”

“I thought you agreed with Nasuada’s accepting the Urgals’ offer.”

“That doesn’t mean I trust them or want to be right alongside them, now does it?” Aregon smiled and did not bother to argue; it would be impossible to convince Orik that the Urgals were not rapacious killers when she herself had refused to consider the possibility until sharing an Urgal’s memories.

The night lay heavy around them as they waited for dawn. Orik removed a whetstone from his pocket and proceeded to hone the edge of his curved ax. Once they arrived, the six other dwarves did the same, and the rasp of metal on stone filled the air with a grating chorus. The Kull sat back to back, chanting death songs under their breaths. Aregon spent the time casting wards about herself, Saphira, Nasuada, Orik, and even Arya. She knew that it was dangerous to protect so many, but she could not bear it if they were harmed. When she finished, she transferred what power she dared into the diamonds embedded within the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Aregon watched with interest as Angela clad herself in green and black armor and then, taking out a carved-wood case, assembled her staffsword from two separate handles that attached in the middle and two blades of watered steel that threaded into the ends of the resulting pole. She twirled the completed weapon around her head a few times before seeming satisfied that it would hold up to the shock of battle.

The dwarves eyed her with disapproval, and Aregon heard one grumble, “... blasphemy that any but Dûrgrimst Quan should wield the hûthvír.”

After that the only sound was the discordant music of the dwarves honing their blades.

It was near dawn when the cries began. Aregon and Saphira noticed them first because of their heightened senses, but the agonized screams were soon loud enough for the others to hear. Rising to his feet, Orik looked out toward the Empire, where the cacophony originated. “What manner of creatures are they torturing to extract such fearsome howls? The sound chills the marrow in my bones, it does.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t have to wait very long,” said Angela. Her former cheer had deserted her; she looked pale, drawn, and gray in the face, as if she were ill.

From her post by Saphira, Aregon asked, “You did this?”

“Aye. I poisoned their stew, their bread, their drink—anything I could get my hands on. Some will die now, others will die later as the various toxins take their toll. I slipped the officers nightshade and other such poisons so they will hallucinate in battle.” She tried to smile, but without much success. “Not a very honorable way to fight, I suppose, but I’d rather do this than be killed. Confusion to our enemies and all that.”

“Only a coward or a thief uses poison!” exclaimed Orik. “What glory is there in defeating a sick opponent?” The screams intensified even as he spoke.

Angela gave an unpleasant laugh. “Glory? If you want glory, there are thousands more troops I didn’t poison. I’m sure you will have your fill of glory by the end of today.”

“Is this why you needed the equipment in Orrin’s tent?” asked Aregon. She found her deed repugnant but did not pretend to know whether it was good or evil. It was necessary. Angela had poisoned the soldiers for the same reason Nasuada had accepted the Urgals’ offer of friendship— because it might be their only hope of survival.

“That’s right.”