He wished he had someone to talk to. He considered waking Saphira but discounted the idea. Her rest was more important than listening to him complain. Nor did he want to burden Arya or Glaedr with problems they could do nothing to solve. In any event, he doubted he would find a sympathetic listener in Glaedr when their last exchange had been so barbed.
Eragon resumed his monotonous circuit: three steps forward, turn, three steps back, turn, and repeat.
He had lost the belt of Beloth the Wise. He had allowed Murtagh and Thorn to capture Nasuada. And now he was in charge of the Varden.
Again and again, the same few thoughts kept running through his mind, and with each repetition, his sense of anxiety increased. He felt as if he were caught in a maze without end, and round every unseen corner lurked monsters waiting to pounce. Despite what he had said during the meeting with Orik, Orrin, and the others, he could not see how he, the Varden, or their allies could defeat Galbatorix.
I wouldn’t even be able to rescue Nasuada, assuming I had the freedom to chase after her and try. Bitterness welled up inside him. The task before them seemed hopeless. Why did this have to fall to us? He swore and bit the inside of his mouth until he could not bear the pain.
He stopped pacing and crumpled to the ground, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. “It can’t be done. It can’t be done,” he whispered, rocking from side to side upon his knees. “It can’t.”
In his despair, Eragon thought of praying to the dwarf god Gûntera for help, even as he had done before. To lay his troubles at the feet of one greater than himself and to trust his fate to that power would be a relief. Doing so would allow him to accept his fate—as well as the fates of those he loved—with greater equanimity, for he would no longer be directly responsible for whatever happened.
But Eragon could not bring himself to utter the prayer. He was responsible for their fates, whether he liked it or not, and he felt it would be wrong to pass off his responsibility to anyone else, even a god—or the idea of a god.
The problem was, he did not think he could do what needed to be done. He could command the Varden; of that, he was reasonably sure. But as for how he might go about capturing Urû’baen and killing Galbatorix, there he was at a loss. He did not have the strength to go up against Murtagh, much less the king, and it seemed unlikely in the extreme that he could think of a way around either of their wards. Capturing their minds, or at least Galbatorix’s, seemed equally improbable.
Eragon dug his fingers into the nape of his neck, stretching and scratching his skin as he frantically considered every possibility, no matter how unlikely.
Then he thought of the advice Solembum had given him in Teirm, so long ago. The werecat had said, Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the times comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.
His words concerning the Menoa tree had proven true; under it Eragon had found the brightsteel he needed for the blade of his sword. Now a desperate hope flared inside Eragon as he pondered the second of the werecat’s pronouncements.
If ever my power was insufficient, and if ever all seemed lost, it is now, thought Eragon. However, he still had no idea where or what the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls were. He had asked both Oromis and Arya at different times, but they had never returned an answer.
Eragon reached out with his mind then, and searched through the camp until he found the distinctive feel of the werecat’s mind. Solembum, he said, I need your help! Please come to my tent.
After a moment, he felt a grudging acknowledgment from the werecat, and he severed the contact.
Then Eragon sat alone in the dark … and waited.
FRAGMENTS, HALF-SEEN AND INDISTINCT
ver a quarter of an hour passed before the flap to Eragon’s tent stirred and Solembum pushed his way inside, his padded feet nearly silent upon the ground.
The tawny werecat walked past Eragon without looking at him, jumped onto his cot, and settled among his blankets, whereupon he began to lick the webbing between the claws of his right paw. Still not looking at Eragon, he said, I am not a dog to come and go at your summons, Eragon.
“I never thought you were,” Eragon replied. “But I have need of you, and it is urgent.”
Mmh. The rasping of Solembum’s tongue grew louder as he concentrated on the leathery palm of his foot. Speak then, Shadeslayer. What do you want?
“One moment.” Eragon stood and went over to the pole where his lantern hung. “I’m going to light this,” he warned Solembum. Then Eragon spoke a word in the ancient language, and a flame sprang to life atop the wick of the lantern, filling the tent with a warm, flickering illumination.
Both Eragon and Solembum squinted while they waited for their eyes to adjust to the increase in brightness. When the light no longer felt quite so uncomfortable, Eragon seated himself on his stool, not far from the cot.
The werecat, he was puzzled to see, was watching him with ice-blue eyes.
“Weren’t your eyes a different color?” he asked.
Solembum blinked once, and his eyes changed from blue to gold. Then he resumed cleaning his paw. What do you want, Shadeslayer? The night is for the doing of things, not sitting and talking. The tip of his tasseled tail lashed from side to side.
Eragon wet his lips, his hope making him nervous. “Solembum, you told me that when all seemed lost and my power was insufficient, I should go to the Rock of Kuthian and open the Vault of Souls.”
The werecat paused in his licking. Ah, that.
“Yes, that. And I need to know what you meant by it. If there’s anything that can help us against Galbatorix, I need to know about it now—not later, not once I manage to solve one riddle or another, but now. So, where can I find the Rock of Kuthian, how do I open the Vault of Souls, and what will I find inside it?”
Solembum’s black-tipped ears angled backward slightly, and the claws on the paw he was cleaning extended halfway from their sheaths. I don’t know.