“Not by yourself,” said Arya. “I know I speak for Queen Islanzadí when I say that our people will stand with you.”
“As will ours,” rumbled Garzhvog.
“And ours,” affirmed Orik.
“And ours,” Eragon said in a tone that he hoped would discourage dissent.
When, after a pause, the four of them turned toward Grimrr, the werecat sniffed and said, “Well, I suppose we’ll be there too.” He inspected his sharp nails. “Someone has to sneak past enemy lines, and it certainly won’t be the dwarves bumbling around in their iron boots.”
Orik’s eyebrows rose, but if he was offended, he hid it well.
Two more drinks Orrin quaffed; then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Very well, as you wish; we’ll continue on to Urû’baen.” His cup empty, he reached for the bottle in front of him.
A MAZE WITHOUT END
ragon and the others spent the rest of the conclave discussing practicalities: lines of communication—who was supposed to answer to whom; assignments of duty; rearrangements of the camp wards and sentinels to prevent Thorn or Shruikan from sneaking up on them again; and how to secure new equipment for the men whose belongings had been burned or squashed during the attack. By consensus they decided to hold off announcing what had happened to Nasuada until the following day; it was more important for the warriors to get what sleep they could before dawn brightened the horizon.
And yet, the one thing they never discussed was whether they should try to rescue Nasuada. It was obvious that the only way to free her would be to seize Urû’baen, and by then she would probably be dead, injured, or bound to Galbatorix in the ancient language. So they avoided the subject entirely, as if to mention it was forbidden.
Nevertheless, she was a constant presence in Eragon’s thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Murtagh striking her, then the scaly fingers of Thorn’s paw closing round her, and then the red dragon flying off into the night. The memories only made Eragon more miserable, but he could not stop himself from reliving them.
As the conclave dispersed, Eragon motioned to Roran, Jörmundur, and Arya. They followed him without question back to his tent, where Eragon spent some time asking their advice and planning for the day to come.
“The Council of Elders will give you some trouble, I’m sure,” Jörmundur said. “They don’t consider you as skilled at politics as Nasuada, and they’ll try to take advantage of that.” The long-haired warrior had appeared preternaturally calm since the attack, so much so that Eragon suspected he was on the verge of either tears or rage, or perhaps a combination of both.
“I’m not,” Eragon said.
Jörmundur inclined his head. “Nevertheless, you must hold strong. I can help you some, but much will depend on how you comport yourself. If you allow them to unduly influence your decisions, they’ll think they have inherited the leadership of the Varden, not you.”
Eragon glanced at Arya and Saphira, concerned.
Never fear, said Saphira to them all. No one shall get the better of him while I stand watch.
When their smaller, secondary meeting came to an end, Eragon waited until Arya and Jörmundur had filed out of the tent; then he caught Roran by the shoulder. “Did you mean what you said about this being a battle of the gods?”
Roran stared at him. “I did.… You and Murtagh and Galbatorix—you’re too powerful for any normal person to defeat. It’s not right. It’s not fair. But so it is. The rest of us are like ants under your boots. Have you any idea how many men you’ve killed single-handedly?”
“Too many.”
“Exactly. I’m glad you’re here to fight for us, and I’m glad to count you as my brother in all but name, but I wish we didn’t have to rely on a Rider or an elf or any sort of magician to win this war for us. No one should be at the mercy of another person. Not like this. It unbalances the world.”
Then Roran strode out of the tent.
Eragon sank onto his cot, feeling as if he had been struck in the chest. He sat there for a while, sweating and thinking, until the strain of his overactive thoughts caused him to spring upright and hurry outside.
As he exited the tent, the six Nighthawks jumped to their feet, readying their weapons to accompany him wherever he might be going.
Eragon motioned for them to stay put. He had protested, but Jörmundur insisted upon assigning Nasuada’s guards, in addition to Blödhgarm and the other elves, to protect him. “We can’t be too careful,” he had said. Eragon disliked having even more people follow him around, but he had been forced to agree.
Walking past the guards, Eragon hurried over to where Saphira lay curled on the ground.
She opened one eye as he neared and then lifted her wing so he could crawl under it and nestle against her warm belly. Little one, she said, and began to hum softly.
Eragon sat against her, listening to her humming and to the soft rustle of air flowing in and out of her mighty lungs. Behind him, her belly rose and fell with a gentle, soothing cadence.
At any other time, her presence would have been enough to calm him, but not now. His mind refused to slow, his pulse continued to hammer, and his hands and feet were uncomfortably hot.
He kept his feelings to himself, to avoid disturbing Saphira. She was tired after her two fights with Thorn, and she soon fell into a deep slumber, her humming fading into the ever-present sound of her breathing.