And still Eragon’s thoughts would not give him rest. Over and over, he returned to the same impossible, incontrovertible fact: he was the leader of the Varden. He, who had been nothing more than the youngest member of a poor farming family, was now the leader of the second-largest army in Alagaësia. That it had happened at all seemed outrageous, as if fate was toying with him, baiting him into a trap that would destroy him. He had never wanted it, never sought it, and yet events had thrust it upon him.
What was Nasuada thinking when she chose me as her successor? he wondered. He remembered the reasons she had given him, but they did nothing to alleviate his doubts. Did she really believe I could take her place? Why not Jörmundur? He’s been with the Varden for decades, and he knows so much more about command and strategy.
Eragon thought of when Nasuada had decided to accept the Urgals’ offer of an alliance in spite of all the hate and grief that existed between their two races, and even though it had been Urgals who had killed her father. Could I have done that? He imagined not—not then, at least. Can I make those sorts of decisions now, if they’re what’s required to defeat Galbatorix?
He was not sure.
He made an effort to still his mind. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on counting his breaths in batches of ten. It was difficult to keep his attention focused on the task; every few seconds, another thought or sensation would threaten to distract him, and he often forgot the count.
In time, however, his body began to relax, and almost without his realizing it, the shifting, rainbow visions of his waking dreams crept over him.
Many things he saw, some grim and unsettling, as his dreams reflected the events of the past day. Others were bittersweet: memories of what had been or what he wished could have been.
Then, like a sudden change of wind, his dreams rippled and became harder and more substantial, as if they were tangible realities that he could reach out and touch. Everything around him faded away, and he beheld another time and place—one that seemed both strange and familiar, as if he had seen it once long before, and then it had passed from recollection.
Eragon opened his eyes, but the images stayed with him, obscuring his surroundings, and he knew that he was experiencing no normal dream:
A dark and lonely plain lay before him, cut by a single strip of water that flowed slow-moving into the east: a ribbon of beaten silver bright beneath the glare of a full moon.… Floating on the nameless river, a ship, tall and proud, with pure white sails raised and ready.… Ranks of warriors holding lances, and two hooded figures walking among them, as if in a stately procession. The smell of willows and cottonwoods, and a sense of passing sorrow.… Then a man’s anguished cry, and a flash of scales, and a muddle of motion that concealed more than it revealed.
And then nothing but silence and blackness.
Eragon’s sight cleared, and he again found himself looking at the underside of Saphira’s wing. He released his pent-up breath—which he had not realized he was holding—and with a shaky hand wiped the tears from his eyes. He could not understand why the vision had affected him so strongly.
Was that a premonition? he wondered. Or something actually happening at this very moment? And why is it of any importance to me?
Thereafter, he was unable to continue resting. His worries returned in force and assailed him without reprieve, gnawing at his mind like a host of rats, each bite of which seemed to infect him with a creeping poison.
At last he crawled out from under Saphira’s wing—taking care not to wake her—and wandered back to his tent.
As before, the Nighthawks rose when they saw him. Their commander, a thickset man with a crooked nose, came forward to meet Eragon. “Is there anything you need, Shadeslayer?” he asked.
Eragon dimly remembered that the man’s name was Garven and something Nasuada had told him about the man losing his senses after examining the minds of the elves. The man appeared well enough now, although his gaze had a certain dreamy quality. Still, Eragon assumed Garven was capable of carrying out his duties; otherwise, Jörmundur would never have allowed him to return to his post.
“Not at the moment, Captain,” Eragon said, keeping his voice low. He took another step forward, then paused. “How many of the Nighthawks were killed tonight?”
“Six, sir. An entire watch. We’ll be shorthanded for a few days until we can find suitable replacements. And we’ll need more recruits in addition to that. We want to double the force around you.” A look of anguish perturbed Garven’s otherwise distant gaze. “We failed her, Shadeslayer. If there had been more of us there, maybe—”
“We all failed her,” said Eragon. “And if there had been more of you there, more of you would have died.”
The man hesitated, then nodded, his expression miserable.
I failed her, thought Eragon as he ducked into his tent. Nasuada was his liegelord; it was his duty to protect her even more than it was that of the Nighthawks. And yet the one time she had needed his help, he had been unable to save her.
He cursed once, viciously, to himself.
As her vassal, he ought to be searching for a way to rescue her, to the exclusion of all else. But he also knew that she would not want him to abandon the Varden just for her sake. She would rather suffer and die than allow her absence to harm the cause to which she had devoted her life.
Eragon cursed again and began to pace back and forth within the confines of the tent.
I’m the leader of the Varden.
Only now that she was gone did Eragon realize that Nasuada had become more than just his liegelord and commander; she had become his friend, and he felt the same urge to protect her that he often felt with Arya. If he tried, however, he could end up costing the Varden the war.
I’m the leader of the Varden.
He thought of all the people who were now his responsibility: Roran and Katrina and the rest of the villagers from Carvahall; the hundreds of warriors whom he had fought alongside, and many more as well; the dwarves; the werecats; and even the Urgals. All now under his command and dependent on him to make the right decisions in order to defeat Galbatorix and the Empire.
Eragon’s pulse surged, causing his vision to flicker. He stopped pacing and clutched at the pole in the center of the tent, then dabbed the sweat from his brow and upper lip.