I cannot say for certain what drove him, Eragon. You have to accept that there are some questions you will never be able to answer about Brom. Trust in his love for you, and do not allow such concerns to disturb you.
Eragon stared down his chest at his thumbs. He placed them side by side, to better compare them. His left thumb had more wrinkles on its second joint than did his right, while his right had a small, ragged scar that he could not remember getting, although it must have happened since the Agaetí Blödhren, the Blood-oath Celebration.
Thank you, he said to Saphira. Through her, he had watched and listened to Brom’s message three times since the fall of Feinster, and each time he had noticed some detail of Brom’s speech or movement that had previously escaped him. The experience comforted and satisfied him, for it fulfilled a desire that had plagued him his entire life: to know the name of his father and to know that his father cared for him.
Saphira acknowledged his thanks with a warm glow of affection.
Though Eragon had eaten and then rested for perhaps an hour, his weariness had not entirely abated. Nor had he expected it to. He knew from experience that it could take weeks to fully recover from the debilitating effects of a long, drawn-out battle. As the Varden approached Urû’baen, he and everyone else in Nasuada’s army would have less and less time to recover before each new confrontation. The war would wear them down until they were bloody, battered, and barely able to fight, at which point they would still have to face Galbatorix, who would have been waiting for them in ease and comfort.
He tried not to think about it too much.
Another drop of water struck his leg, cold and hard. Irritated, he swung his legs off the edge of the cot and sat upright, then went over to the bare patch of dirt in one corner and knelt next to it.
“Deloi sharjalví!” he said, as well as several other phrases in the ancient language that were necessary to disarm the traps he had set the previous day.
The dirt began to seethe like water coming to a boil, and rising out of the churning fountain of rocks, insects, and worms, there emerged an ironbound chest a foot and a half in length. Reaching out, Eragon took hold of the chest and released his spell. The ground grew calm once more.
He set the chest on the now-solid dirt. “Ládrin,” he whispered, and waved his hand past the lock with no keyhole that secured the hasp. It popped open with a click.
A faint golden glow filled the tent as he lifted the lid of the chest.
Nestled securely within the velvet-lined interior lay Glaedr’s Eldunarí, the dragon’s heart of hearts. The large, jewel-like stone glittered darkly, like a dying ember. Eragon cupped the Eldunarí between his hands, the irregular, sharp-edged facets warm against his palms, and stared into its pulsing depths. A galaxy of tiny stars swirled within the center of the stone, although their movement had slowed and there seemed to be far fewer than when Eragon had first beheld the stone in Ellesméra, when Glaedr had discharged it from his body and into Eragon and Saphira’s care.
As always, the sight fascinated Eragon; he could have sat watching the ever-changing pattern for days.
We should try again, said Saphira, and he agreed.
Together they reached out with their minds toward the distant lights, toward the sea of stars that represented Glaedr’s consciousness. Through cold and darkness they sailed, then heat and despair and indifference so vast and so great, it sapped their will to do anything other than to stop and weep.
Glaedr … Elda, they cried over and over, but there was no answer, no shifting of the indifference.
At last they withdrew, unable to withstand the crushing weight of Glaedr’s misery any longer.
As he returned to himself, Eragon became aware of someone knocking on the front pole of his tent, and then he heard Arya say, “Eragon? May I enter?”
He sniffed and blinked to clear his eyes. “Of course.”
The dim gray light from the cloudy sky fell upon him as Arya pushed aside the entrance flap. He felt a sudden pang as his eyes met hers—green, slanted, and unreadable—and an ache of longing filled him.
“Has there been any change?” she asked, and came to kneel by him. Instead of armor, she was wearing the same black leather shirt, trousers, and thin-soled boots as when he had rescued her in Gil’ead. Her hair was damp from washing and hung down her back in long, heavy ropes. The scent of crushed pine needles attended her, as it so often did, and it occurred to Eragon to wonder whether she used a spell to create the aroma or if that was how she smelled naturally. He would have liked to ask her, but he did not dare.
In answer to her question, he shook his head.
“May I?” She indicated Glaedr’s heart of hearts.
He moved out of the way. “Please.”
Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí and then closed her eyes. While she sat, he took the opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been offensive otherwise. In every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he knew that another might say her nose was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too pointed, or her arms too muscled.
With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it had burned her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly. “He is the most unhappy creature I have ever met.… I would we could help him. I do not think he will be able to find his way out of the darkness on his own.”
“Do you think …” Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued: “Do you think he will go mad?”
“He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity.”
Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.
When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, “Where is the Dauthdaert?”