Saphira soon joined them. She nuzzled Eragon, who smiled and scratched her snout. She hummed in response. You did it, she said.
We did it, he replied.
Up on her back, Blödhgarm loosened the straps that held his legs in Saphira’s saddle, then slid down her side. For a moment, Eragon had the supremely disorienting experience of meeting himself. He immediately decided that he disliked how his hair curled at the temples.
Blödhgarm uttered an indistinct word in the ancient language; then his shape shimmered like a heat reflection and he was once again himself: tall, furred, yellow-eyed, long-eared, and sharp-toothed. He appeared neither elf nor human, but in his tense, hard-set expression, Eragon detected the stamp of sorrow and anger combined.
“Shadeslayer,” he said, and bowed to both Arya and Eragon. “Saphira has told me of Wyrden’s fate. I—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the ten remaining elves under Blödhgarm’s command emerged from within the press of the Varden and hurried over, swords in hand.
“Shadeslayer!” they exclaimed. “Argetlam! Brightscales!”
Eragon greeted them tiredly and strove to answer their questions, even though he would rather have done nothing at all.
Then a roar cut through their conversation, and a shadow fell across them, and Eragon looked up to see Thorn—whole and sound once more—balancing on a column of air high above.
Eragon cursed and scrambled onto Saphira, drawing Brisingr, while Arya, Blödhgarm, and the other elves formed a protective circle around her. Their combined might was formidable, but whether it would be enough to fend off Murtagh, Eragon did not know.
As one, the Varden gazed upward. Brave they might be, but even the bravest might shrink before a dragon.
“Brother!” shouted Murtagh, his augmented voice so loud that Eragon covered his ears. “I’ll have blood from you for the injuries you caused Thorn! Take Dras-Leona if you want. It means nothing to Galbatorix. But you’ve not seen the last of us, Eragon Shadeslayer, that I swear.”
And then Thorn turned and flew north over Dras-Leona, and soon vanished within the veil of smoke that rose from the houses burning next to the ruined cathedral.
BY THE BANKS OF LAKE LEONA
ragon strode through the darkened camp, his jaw set and his fists clenched.
He had spent the last few hours in conference with Nasuada, Orik, Arya, Garzhvog, King Orrin, and their various advisers, discussing the day’s events and assessing the Varden’s current situation. Near the end of the meeting, they had contacted Queen Islanzadí to inform her that the Varden had captured Dras-Leona, as well as to tell her of Wyrden’s death.
Eragon had not enjoyed explaining to the queen how one of her oldest and most powerful spellcasters had died, nor had the queen been pleased to receive the news. Her initial reaction had been one of such sadness, it surprised him; he had not thought she knew Wyrden that well.
Talking with Islanzadí had left Eragon in a foul mood, for it had reinforced for him how random and unnecessary Wyrden’s death had been. If I had been in the lead, I would have been the one impaled on those spikes, he thought as he continued his search through the camp. Or it could have been Arya.
Saphira knew what he was up to, but she had decided to return to the space by his tent where she normally slept, for as she said, If I go tromping up and down the rows of tents, I’ll keep the Varden awake, and they have earned their rest. Their minds remained joined, though, and he knew if he needed her, she would be at his side within seconds.
To preserve his night vision, Eragon avoided going near the bonfires and torches that burned before many of the tents, but he made sure to inspect each pool of light for his prey.
As he hunted, it occurred to him that she might elude him entirely. His feelings for her were far from friendly, and that would allow her to sense his location and avoid him, if she wanted. Yet he did not think she was a coward. Despite her youth, she was one of the hardest people he had met, human, elf, or dwarf.
At last he spotted Elva sitting in front of a small, nondescript tent, weaving a cat’s cradle by the light of a dying fire. Next to her sat the girl’s caretaker, Greta, a pair of long wooden knitting needles darting in her gnarled hands.
For a moment, Eragon stood and watched. The old woman appeared more content than he had ever seen her, and he found himself reluctant to disturb her repose.
Then Elva said, “Do not lose your nerve now, Eragon. Not when you have come so far.” Her voice was curiously subdued, as if she had been crying, but when she looked up, her gaze was fierce and challenging.
Greta appeared startled when Eragon made his way into the light; she gathered up her yarn and needles and bowed, saying, “Greetings, Shadeslayer. May I offer you anything to eat or drink?”
“No, thank you.” Eragon stopped before Elva and stared down at the small-framed girl. She stared back at him for a moment, then returned to weaving the loop of yarn between her fingers. Her violet eyes, he noted with a strange twist in his stomach, were the same color as the amethyst crystals the priests of Helgrind had used to kill Wyrden and imprison Arya and himself.
Eragon knelt and grabbed the tangle of yarn about the middle, stopping Elva’s motion.
“I know what you intend to say,” she stated.
“That may be,” he growled, “but I’m still going to say it. You killed Wyrden—you killed him as surely as if you had stabbed him yourself. If you had come with us, you could have warned him about the trap. You could have warned all of us. I watched Wyrden die, and I watched Arya tear half her hand off, because of you. Because of your anger. Because of your stubbornness. Because of your pride.… Hate me if you will, but don’t you dare make anyone else suffer for it. If you want the Varden to lose, then go join Galbatorix and be done with it. Well, is that what you want?”
Elva slowly shook her head.