Hoping that he was not doing the wrong thing, Eragon tentatively began to rub the creature’s neck. A moment later, a loud, throbbing purr filled the night air.
“She likes you,” Angela observed.
For some reason, Eragon felt inordinately pleased. “Who is she? I mean, that is, who are you? What is your name?” He cast a quick glance at the werecat, worried that he had offended her.
Angela laughed quietly. “Her name is Shadowhunter. Or rather, that is what her name means in the language of the werecats. Properly, she is …” Here the herbalist uttered a strange coughing, growling sound that made the nape of Eragon’s neck crawl. “Shadowhunter is mated to Grimrr Halfpaw, so one might say that she is queen of the werecats.”
The purring increased in volume.
“I see.” Eragon looked around at the other werecats. “Where is Solembum?”
“Busy chasing a long-whiskered female who is half his age. He’s acting as foolish as a kitten … but then, everyone’s entitled to a little foolishness once in a while.” Catching the spindle with her left hand, she stopped its motion and wound the newly formed thread around the base of the wooden disk. Then she gave the spindle a twist to start it spinning again and resumed drafting from the batt of wool in her other hand. “You look as if you are full to bursting with questions, Shadeslayer.”
“Whenever I meet you, I always end up feeling more confused than before.”
“Always? That’s rather absolutist of you. Very well, I will attempt to be informative. Ask away.”
Skeptical of her apparent openness, Eragon considered what he would like to know. Finally: “A thunder of dragons? What did you—”
“That is the proper term for a flock of dragons. If ever you had heard one in full flight, you would understand. When ten, twelve, or more dragons flew past overhead, the very air would reverberate around you, as if you were sitting inside a giant drum. Besides, what else could you call a group of dragons? You have your murder of ravens, your convocation of eagles, your gaggle of geese, your raft of ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so on, but what about dragons? A hunger of dragons? That doesn’t sound quite right. Nor does referring to them as a blaze or a terror, although I’m rather fond of terror, all things considered: a terror of dragons.… But no, a flock of dragons is called a thunder. Which you would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing a sword and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, humoring her. Through his ever-present link with Saphira, he sensed her approval of the phrase “a thunder of dragons,” an opinion he shared; it was a fitting description.
He thought for a moment longer, then asked, “And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?”
“It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them.”
“What does it mean?”
“Mooneater.”
“Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?”
“I ate the moon, of course. How else?”
Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: “Why did Garzhvog give you that stone?”
“Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious.”
“But what is it?”
“A piece of rock. Didn’t you notice?” She clucked with disapproval. “Really, you ought to pay better attention to what’s going on around you. Otherwise, someone’s liable to stick a knife in you when you’re not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?” She tossed her hair. “Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?”
The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince.
“Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see.… Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it—that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all—but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.”
“He chirped?”
Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.”
“No wonder he hates you.”
“What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward—or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!”
Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.