Then, as the first rays of dawn brightened the eastern sky over the ancient island of Vroengard, where the Riders and dragons had once lived, he thought of a name—a name such as he had not thought of before—and as he did, a sense of certainty came over him.
He said the name, whispered it to himself in the deepest recesses of his mind, and all his body seemed to vibrate at once, as if Saphira had struck the pillar beneath him.
And then he gasped, and he found himself both laughing and crying—laughing that he had succeeded and for the sheer joy of comprehension; crying because all his failings, all the mistakes he had made, were now obvious to him, and he no longer had any delusions to comfort himself with.
“I am not who I was,” he whispered, gripping the edges of the column, “but I know who I am.”
The name, his true name, was weaker and more flawed than he would have liked, and he hated himself for that, but there was also much to admire within it, and the more he thought about it, the more he was able to accept the true nature of his self. He was not the best person in the world, but neither was he the worst.
“And I won’t give up,” he growled.
He took solace in the fact that his identity was not immutable; he could improve himself if he wished. And right then, he swore to himself that he would do better in the future, be it ever so hard.
Still laughing, still crying, he turned his face toward the sky and spread his arms out to either side. In time, the tears and the laughter stopped, and in their place he felt a sense of deep calm overlaid with a tinge of happiness and resignation. Despite Glaedr’s admonition, he again whispered his true name, and once more his entire being shook from the force of the words.
Keeping his arms outstretched, he stood atop the pillar, and then he tipped forward and fell headfirst toward the ground. Just before he struck, he said, “Vëoht,” and he slowed, rotated, and alit upon the cracked stone as gently as if he were stepping out of a carriage.
He returned to the fountain in the center of the courtyard and retrieved his cloak. Then, as light spread through the ruined city, he hurried back toward the nesting house, eager to wake Saphira and tell her and Glaedr of his discovery.
THE VAULT OF SOULS
ragon lifted his sword and shield, eager to proceed, but also somewhat afraid.
As before, he and Saphira stood at the base of the Rock of Kuthian while Glaedr’s heart of hearts sat in the small chest hidden within the saddlebags upon Saphira’s back.
It was still early morning, and the sun shone brightly through large tears in the canopy of clouds. Eragon and Saphira had wanted to go directly to the Rock of Kuthian once Eragon had returned to the nesting house, but Glaedr had insisted that Eragon eat first, and that they then wait for the food to settle in his stomach.
But now they were finally at the jagged spire of stone, and Eragon was tired of waiting, as was Saphira.
Ever since they had shared their true names, the bond between them seemed to have grown stronger, perhaps because they had both heard how much they cared for each other. It was something they had always known, but nevertheless, to have it stated in such irrefutable terms had increased the sense of closeness they shared.
Somewhere to the north, a raven called.
I’ll go first, said Glaedr. If it’s a trap, I might be able to spring it before it catches either of you.
Eragon started to pull his mind away from Glaedr, as did Saphira, to allow the dragon to utter his true name without being overheard. But Glaedr said, No, you have told me your names. It is only right you should know mine.
Eragon looked at Saphira, and then they both said, Thank you, Ebrithil.
Then Glaedr spoke his name, and it boomed forth in Eragon’s mind like a fanfare of trumpets, regal and yet discordant, colored throughout by Glaedr’s grief and anger at Oromis’s death. His name was longer than either Eragon’s or Saphira’s; it went on for several sentences—a record of a life that had stretched over centuries and which had contained joys and sorrows and accomplishments too numerous to count. His wisdom was evident in his name, but also contradictions: complexities that made it difficult to fully grasp his identity.
Saphira felt the same sense of awe upon hearing Glaedr’s name as did Eragon; the sound of it made them both realize how young they still were and how far they had to go before they could hope to match Glaedr’s knowledge and experience.
I wonder what Arya’s true name is. Eragon thought to himself.
They watched the Rock of Kuthian intently, but saw no change.
Saphira went next. Arching her neck and pawing at the ground like a high-spirited charger, she proudly stated her true name. Even in the daylight, her scales again shimmered and sparkled at the proclamation.
Hearing her and Glaedr say their true names made Eragon less self-conscious about his own. None of them were perfect, and yet they did not condemn each other for their shortcomings, but rather acknowledged and forgave them.
Again, nothing happened after Saphira uttered her name.
Lastly, Eragon stepped forward. A cold sweat coated his brow. Knowing that it might be his final act as a free man, he spoke his name with his mind, as had Glaedr and Saphira. They had agreed beforehand that it would be safer for him to avoid saying his name out loud, so as to reduce the chance that anyone might overhear it.
As Eragon formed the last word with his thoughts, a thin, dark line appeared at the base of the spire.
It ran upward fifty feet and then split in two and arched down to either side, tracing the outline of two broad doors. Upon the doors appeared row after row of glyphs limned in gold: wards against both physical and magical detection.