Saphira was slow to answer. Perhaps. But then, as Solembum said to you, there are many powers in Alagaësia. Until we go to Vroengard, we won’t know for certain one way or another.
If ever we do.
Aye.
Eragon ran his fingers through his hair. He suddenly felt exceptionally tired. Why does everything have to be so hard? he wondered.
Because, said Saphira, everyone wants to eat, but no one wants to be eaten.
He snorted, grimly amused.
Despite the speed with which he and Saphira could exchange thoughts, their conversation had lasted long enough for Arya and Glaedr to notice.
“Why have you closed your minds to us?” asked Arya. Her gaze flicked toward one wall of the tent—the wall nearest to where Saphira lay curled in the darkness beyond. “Is something wrong?”
You seem perturbed, Glaedr added.
Eragon stifled a humorless chuckle. “Perhaps because I am.” Arya watched with concern as he went over to the cot and sat on the edge. He let his arms hang limp and heavy between his legs. He was silent for a moment as he made the shift from the language of his birth to that of the elves and magic, whereupon he said, “Do you trust Saphira and me?”
The resulting pause was gratifyingly brief.
“I do,” replied Arya, also in the ancient language.
As do I, Glaedr likewise said.
Shall I, or shall you? Eragon quickly asked Saphira.
You want to tell them, so tell them.
Eragon looked up at Arya. Then, still in the ancient language, he said to both her and Glaedr, “Solembum has told me the name of a place, a place on Vroengard, where Saphira and I may find someone or something to help us defeat Galbatorix. However, the name is enchanted. Every time I say the name, you soon forget it.” A faint expression of shock appeared on Arya’s face. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe you,” Arya slowly said.
I believe that you believe what you are saying, Glaedr growled. But that does not necessarily make it so.
“How else can I prove it? You won’t remember if I tell you the name or share my memories with you. You could question Solembum, but again, what good would it do?”
What good? For one, we can prove that you haven’t been tricked or deceived by something that only appeared to be Solembum. And as for the spell, there may be a way to demonstrate its existence. Summon the werecat, and then we shall see what can be done.
Will you? Eragon asked Saphira. He thought that the werecat would be more likely to come if Saphira asked him.
A moment later, he felt her searching with her mind through the camp, and then he sensed the touch of Solembum’s consciousness against Saphira’s. After she and the werecat exchanged a brief, wordless communication, Saphira announced, He is on his way.
They waited in silence, Eragon staring down at his hands as he compiled a list of supplies he would need for the trip to Vroengard.
When Solembum pushed aside the flaps to the tent and entered, Eragon was surprised to see that he was now in his human form: that of a young boy, dark-eyed and insolent. In his left hand, the werecat held a leg of roast goose, on which he was gnawing. A ring of grease coated his lips and chin, and drops of melted fat had splattered his bare chest.
As he chewed on a strip of flesh, Solembum motioned with his sharp, pointed chin toward the patch of dirt where Glaedr’s heart of hearts lay buried. What is it you want, firebreather? he asked.
To know if you are who you seem to be! said Glaedr, and the dragon’s consciousness seemed to surround Solembum’s, pressing inward like piles of black clouds around a brightly burning but wind-battered flame. The dragon’s strength was immense, and from personal experience, Eragon knew that few could hope to withstand him.
With a gargled yowl, Solembum spat out his mouthful of meat and sprang backward, as if he had stepped on a viper. He stood where he was, then, trembling with effort, his sharp teeth bared, and a look of such fury in his tawny eyes, Eragon placed his hand on the hilt of Brisingr as a precaution. The flame dimmed but held: a white-hot point of light amid a sea of churning thunderheads.
After a minute, the storm diminished and the clouds withdrew, although they did not disappear entirely.
My apologies, werecat, said Glaedr, but I had to know for certain.
Solembum hissed, and the hair on his head fluffed and spiked so that it resembled the blossom of a thistle. If you still had your body, old one, I would cut off your tail for that.