They had all heard, Eragon realized.
Together he and Arya rose from the ground and sprinted over to Saphira, who said, He will not answer me; wherever he was, he has returned, and he will not listen to anything but his sorrow. Here, see.…
Eragon joined his mind with hers, and with Arya’s, and the three of them reached out with their thoughts toward Glaedr’s heart of hearts, where it lay hidden within the saddlebags. What remained of the dragon felt more robust than before, but his mind was still closed to outside communication, his consciousness listless and indifferent, as it had been ever since Galbatorix slew his Rider, Oromis.
Eragon, Saphira, and Arya tried to rouse the dragon from his stupor. However, Glaedr steadfastly ignored them, taking no more notice of them than a sleeping cave bear might of a few flies buzzing around his head.
And yet Eragon could not help but think that Glaedr’s indifference was not as complete as it seemed, given his comment.
At last the three of them admitted defeat and withdrew to their respective bodies. As Eragon returned to himself, Arya said, “Perhaps if we could touch his Eldunarí …?”
Eragon sheathed Brisingr, then hopped onto Saphira’s right foreleg and pulled himself into the saddle perched on the crest of her shoulders. He twisted round in his seat and began to work on the buckles of the saddlebags.
He had unfastened one of the buckles and was picking at the other when the brazen call of a horn rang forth from the head of the Varden, sounding the advance. At the signal, the vast train of men and animals lurched forward, their movements hesitant at first, but becoming smoother and more confident with every step.
Eragon glanced down at Arya, torn. She solved his dilemma by waving and saying, “Tonight, we will speak tonight. Go! Fly with the wind!”
He quickly rebuckled the saddlebag, then slid his legs through the rows of straps on either side of the saddle and pulled them tight, so he would not fall off Saphira in midair.
Then Saphira crouched and, with a roar of joy, leaped out over the road. The men below her ducked and cringed, and horses bolted as she unfurled her huge wings and flapped, driving herself away from the hard, unfriendly ground, up into the smooth expanse of the sky.
Eragon closed his eyes and tilted his face up, glad to finally be leaving Belatona. After spending a week in the city with nothing to do but eat and rest—for so Nasuada had insisted—he was eager to resume their journey toward Urû’baen.
When Saphira leveled off, hundreds of feet above the peaks and towers of the city, he said, Will Glaedr recover, do you think?
He will never be as he was.
No, but I hope that he will find a way to overcome his grief. I need his help, Saphira. There are so many things I still don’t know. Without him, I have no one else to ask.
She was silent for a while, the only sound that of her wings. We cannot hurry him, she said. He has been hurt in the worst way a dragon or Rider can be. Before he can help you, me, or anyone else, he must decide that he wants to continue living. Until he does, our words cannot reach him.
NO HONOR, NO GLORY,
ONLY BLISTERS IN
UNFORTUNATE PLACES
he belling of the hounds grew louder behind them, the pack of dogs howling for blood.
Roran tightened his grip on the reins and bent lower over the neck of his galloping charger. The pounding of the horse’s hooves rolled through him like thunder.
He and his five men—Carn, Mandel, Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund—had stolen fresh horses from the stable of a manor house less than a half mile away. The grooms had not taken kindly to the theft. A show of swords had been sufficient to overcome their objections, but the grooms must have alerted the manor guards as soon as Roran and his companions had departed, for ten of the guards had set out after them, led by a pack of hunting dogs.
“There!” he shouted, and pointed toward a narrow strip of birch trees that extended from between two nearby hills, no doubt following the path of a stream.
At his word, the men pulled their horses off the well-traveled road and headed in the direction of the trees. The rough ground forced them to slow their headlong pace, but only slightly, despite the risk that the horses would step in a hole and break a leg or throw a rider. Dangerous as it was, allowing the hounds to catch them would be more dangerous still.
Roran dug his spurs into the sides of the horse and shouted “Yah!” as loudly as he could through his dust-clogged throat. The gelding leaped forward and, stride by stride, began to gain on Carn.
Roran knew that his horse would soon reach a point where it could no longer produce such bursts of speed, no matter how hard he jabbed it with his spurs or whipped it with the ends of his reins. He hated to be cruel, and he had no desire to ride the animal to death, but he would not spare the horse if it meant the failure of their mission.
As he drew level with Carn, Roran shouted, “Can’t you hide our trail with a spell?”
“Don’t know how!” Carn replied, barely audible over the rush of wind and the sound of the galloping horses. “It’s too complicated!”
Roran swore and glanced over his shoulder. The hounds were rounding the last bend in the road. They seemed to fly over the ground, their long, lean bodies lengthening and contracting at a violent rate. Even at that distance, Roran could make out the red of their tongues, and he fancied he saw a gleam of white fangs.
When they reached the trees, Roran turned and began to ride back into the hills, staying as close as he could to the line of birches without hitting low-hanging branches or fallen logs. The others did likewise, shouting at their horses to keep them from slowing as they raced up the incline.