Eragon nodded.
“Good.”
Should we tell them? Eragon asked Saphira, hoping that she would agree.
She thought for a moment. Yes, but do not say where. You tell him, and I will tell Thorn.
As you wish. To Murtagh, Eragon said, “There’s something you should know.”
Murtagh gave him a sideways glance.
“The egg that Galbatorix had—it isn’t the only one in Alagaësia. There are more, hidden in the same place where we found the Eldunarí we brought with us.”
Murtagh turned toward him, disbelief evident on his face. At the same time, Thorn arched his neck and uttered a joyful trumpet that scared a flight of swallows from the branches of a nearby tree.
“How many more?”
“Hundreds.”
For a moment, Murtagh seemed unable to speak. Then: “What will you do with them?”
“Me? I think Saphira and the Eldunarí will have some say in the matter, but probably find somewhere safe for the eggs to hatch, and start to rebuild the Riders.”
“Will you and Saphira train them?”
Eragon shrugged. “I’m sure the elves will help. You could as well, if you join us.”
Murtagh tilted his head back and released a long breath. “The dragons are going to return, and the Riders as well.” He laughed softly. “The world is about to change.”
“It has already changed.”
“Aye. So you and Saphira will become the new leaders of the Riders, while Thorn and I will live in the wilderness.” Eragon tried to say something, to comfort him, but Murtagh stopped him with a look. “No, it is as it should be. You and Saphira will make better teachers than we would.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“Mmh … Promise me one thing, though.”
“What?”
“When you teach them—teach them not to fear. Fear is good in small amounts, but when it is a constant, pounding companion, it cuts away at who you are and makes it hard to do what you know is right.”
“I’ll try.”
Then Eragon noticed that Saphira and Thorn were no longer speaking. The red dragon shifted and moved around her until he was able to peer down at Eragon. With a mental voice that was surprisingly musical, Thorn said, Thank you for not killing my Rider, Eragon-Murtagh’s-brother.
“Yes, thank you,” Murtagh said dryly.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to,” Eragon said, looking Thorn in one glittering, blood-red eye.
The dragon snorted, then bent and touched Eragon on the top of his head, tapping his scales against Eragon’s helm. May the wind and the sun always be at your back.
“And at yours.”
A sense of great anger, grief, and ambivalence pressed heavily against Eragon as Glaedr’s consciousness enveloped his mind and, it seemed, those of Murtagh and Thorn, for they tensed, as if in anticipation of battle. Eragon had forgotten that Glaedr, along with the other Eldunarí—hidden within their invisible pocket of space—were present and listening.
Would that I could thank you for the same, said Glaedr, his words as bitter as an oak gall. You killed my body and you killed my Rider. The statement was flat and simple and all the more terrible because of it.
Murtagh said something with his thoughts, but Eragon did not know what it was, for it was directed to Glaedr alone, and Eragon was privy only to Glaedr’s reaction.