Chapter 2

Before sunrise, they had loaded everything they could sell onto the wagon. Garrow put his savings from over the years into a leather pouch and carefully tied it tight around his belt. Eragon buried the wrapped stone among the grain sacks, lest it roll loose as the wagon jolted along.

After wolfing down breakfast, they hitched up the wagon and cleared a narrow track to the main road. Merchant wagons had gone before them, churning away much of the snow and saving them a great deal of trouble. By noon, Carvahall was already close at hand.

In the sunlight, the simple mountain village brimmed with laughter and cheerful voices. Outside the village, the merchants had already pitched camp across the open ground. Tents and campfires lay scattered everywhere, wagons passed back and forth among them, and the white snow was splashed with a riot of color. The four tents belonging to the traveling performers were decorated even more gaudily and extravagantly. People streamed between the camp and the village without pause, like an unending current of water.

A row of bright tents and market stalls occupied the widest street. Crowds surged through it, their noise stirring whinny after whinny from the horses. The snow beneath their feet had been packed hard, smooth and slippery as glass; wherever fires had been built, it had melted into water. All manner of scents filled the air, but the rich fragrance of roasted hazelnuts curled most enticingly around Eragon's nose.

Garrow parked the wagon, tied the horses to wooden posts, and took several coins from his purse. "Buy yourselves something. Roran, go do whatever you want, but remember to be at Horst's for supper on time. Eragon, bring that stone and come with me." Eragon grinned happily at Roran, pocketed the money, and was already planning how to spend it.

Roran turned and left at once. One look at his expression told Eragon that he had long since decided where he was going. Garrow led Eragon into the market, turning sideways through the crowd and using his shoulders to force a path. Women bought cloth while their husbands stood beside them, carefully examining a new lock, a hook, or some tool. Children ran about shrieking with excitement. Knives here, spices there, and all sorts of jars gleamed in neat rows beside leather tack.

Eragon studied the merchants curiously. They did not seem as prosperous as in past years. The children wore the tense expressions of those who had been frightened, and their clothes were patched. Haggard men wore knives and swords that were plainly new to their hands; even the women had daggers tucked into their belts.

What had happened to leave them like this? Why had they arrived so late? Eragon found it strange. He remembered the merchants as always being high-spirited, yet not a trace of their old cheer remained on their faces. Garrow went down the street in search of Merlock, a man who traded in small ornaments and jewelry.

Merlock stood behind a stall, selling brooches to a group of women. Every new item he displayed brought forth a chorus of admiring cries. Eragon privately guessed that more than a few purses would be emptied before long. Each compliment paid to his wares made Merlock glow. He wore a pointed goatee and moved with unhurried composure, as if he regarded all else in the world with a faintly disdainful eye.

The excited women prevented Garrow and Eragon from getting near Merlock, so they sat on a step and waited. The moment Merlock was free, they hurried over.

"What may I show you, gentlemen?" Merlock called. "A charm or a little ornament for a lady?" He took out an exquisitely crafted silver rose and rolled it between his fingers. The piece caught Eragon's attention, and he could not help admiring it. The merchant continued, "Not even three crowns, and it's the work of a master craftsman from Belatona!"

"We're not here to buy," Garrow said quietly. "We're here to sell." Merlock immediately put away the rose and looked at them with fresh interest.

"I see. Perhaps, if your item has value, you might be willing to exchange it for one or two pretty little things from my collection." He paused. Eragon and his uncle stood awkwardly without speaking. Then he continued, "You brought it with you, didn't you?"

"We did. But we want to show it to you somewhere else," Garrow said firmly.

Merlock raised one eyebrow, but his tone did not change. "In that case, allow me to invite you both into my tent." He packed up his wares, carefully placed them in an iron-bound chest, and locked it. Then he led the way toward the temporary camp. Dodging the constant stream of wagons, they came to a tent standing alone in one corner. It was red on top and black below, covered in brightly colored little triangles that crossed and overlapped one another. Merlock untied the entrance flap and swept it aside.

The tent was crammed with trinkets and strange furniture: a round bed, three chairs carved from tree roots, and the like. On a white cushion lay a crooked dagger, its rounded pommel set with a ruby.

Merlock lowered the flap and turned to them. "Please, sit." Once they had, he said, "Now let me see what requires such private discussion." Eragon unwrapped the stone and placed it before the two men. Light glittered in Merlock's eyes as he reached for it, then suddenly stopped and asked, "May I?" Only after Garrow nodded did he pick it up.

He set the stone on his lap, reached to one side for a small box, and opened it to reveal a brass balance. He placed the balance on the floor and first weighed the stone. Then he put on a jeweler's spectacles and carefully examined its surface. He took out a small wooden mallet and tapped it lightly, then scratched its surface with the edge of a tiny transparent gem. Next, he measured its length and diameter, recording the figures on a slate. After pondering for a moment, he asked, "Do you know how much it is worth?"

"No," Garrow answered honestly. He shifted uneasily in his chair, the muscles in his face twitching faintly.

Merlock frowned. "Unfortunately, neither do I. But I can tell you this much: the white veins inside it and the blue substance surrounding them are made of the same material, only in different colors. As for what that material is, I have no notion at all. It is harder than any stone I have ever seen, harder even than diamond. Whoever shaped it used tools unlike any I have ever encountered—or perhaps magic. And it is hollow."

"What?" Garrow shouted.

A trace of impatience entered Merlock's voice. "Have you ever heard a stone make a sound like this?" He picked up the dagger from the cushion and tapped the stone with its blade. A soft note rang out, drifting through the air. Eragon tensed, afraid the stone might be damaged. Merlock turned it for them to see. "Look. There is neither a scratch nor a flaw where the dagger struck it. I doubt I could damage this stone in the slightest, even if I smashed it with a hammer."

Garrow folded his arms without speaking, building a high wall of silence around himself. Eragon was utterly puzzled. I knew the stone had appeared in the Spine through magic, but was it made by magic too? Why? For what purpose? He blurted out, "Then how much is it worth?"

"I cannot answer that," Merlock said, clearly frustrated. "I believe someone would pay handsomely for it, but not anyone currently in Carvahall. To find a buyer, you would have to go south to the cities. The stone would arouse most people's curiosity, but when food and warmth are what matter, it is certainly not something they will spend money on."

Garrow looked up at the tent roof like a gambler counting his last coins. "Would you buy it?"

The merchant answered immediately. "The risk is too great. Perhaps my trading this spring would allow me to find a wealthy buyer, but that is far from certain. Even then, you would have to wait until I returned next year to receive payment. No, you must seek another buyer. But I would like to know... why did you speak to me about this in secret?"

Eragon moved the stone aside first. "Because..." He glanced at the man, uncertain whether Merlock would fly into a rage like Sloan. "I found it in the Spine, and people here don't like the Spine."

Alarm appeared on Merlock's face. He looked at Eragon and asked, "Do you know why my companions and I arrived late this year?"

Eragon shook his head.

"Our journey has been one nightmare after another. All of Alagaësia seems to have fallen into chaos—disease, attacks, and misfortune that cannot be shaken off. The Varden have attacked more frequently. Galbatorix has forced every city to send more soldiers to the borders, though their original duty was to fight the Urgals. Those beasts are migrating toward the Hadarac Desert in the southeast, and no one knows why. This would have nothing to do with us, except they must pass through populated lands. They are on the roads, lurking outside the cities. Worst of all, there are rumors that a Shade travels with them, though that has not been confirmed. Meeting them would mean nine chances of death and one of life."

"How have we never heard of this?" Eragon cried.

"Because," Merlock said grimly, "it has only happened in recent months. The Urgals destroy farmland, and entire villages have had to wander from place to place to escape starvation."

"It's all baseless talk," Garrow said in a low voice. "We have never truly seen an Urgal. The only thing here is a pair of Urgal horns hanging on the wall of Moone's tavern as decoration."

Merlock raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps. But this village lies hidden in the embrace of the mountains, so it is hardly surprising that you have remained untouched by the world's disputes. Still, I do not think that will continue. If you found this strange stone in the Spine, then unusual things are happening here as well." Having said those chilling words, he gave them a slight bow and smiled in farewell.

Garrow walked ahead, Eragon behind him, as they headed back toward Carvahall. "What do you think?" Eragon asked.

"I need to hear more news before I decide what to make of it. Put the stone back in the wagon, then do whatever you want. Tonight we're eating supper at Horst's."

Eragon shoved through the crowd and ran happily back to the wagon. Trading would take his uncle several hours, so he decided to enjoy himself to the fullest in the meantime. He hid the stone beneath the grain sacks, then strode back into the village in high spirits.

Eragon visited the stalls one by one, inspecting the wares with the critical eye of a buyer, entirely ignoring the pitiful few coins in his pocket. As he chatted with the merchants, their words confirmed that Merlock had spoken the truth: Alagaësia was in turmoil. The same words were repeated over and over. The old peace was gone. A new crisis had appeared. Nothing was safe.

Later, he bought three sticks of barley sugar and a tiny piece of steaming cherry pie. After standing in the snow for hours, hot food tasted wonderful. He licked syrup from his fingers, still wanting more, and wished he had another piece. Then he went up onto someone's porch, sat at the edge of the steps, and slowly ate his candy. Two village boys were wrestling nearby, but he had no desire to join them.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and the merchants began taking their goods into villagers' homes to sell them. Eragon eagerly awaited nightfall, when the performers would tell stories and perform tricks. He loved tales of magic and gods, and if he was especially lucky, he might hear legends of the Dragon Riders. Carvahall had its own storyteller, Brom, who was Eragon's friend. But Brom's stories had grown old, while the traveling performers always brought new tales that interested Eragon.

Eragon casually snapped off an icicle beneath the porch, then looked up to see Sloan nearby. The butcher had not noticed him, so Eragon quickly turned his head, rounded the corner, and ran toward Moone's tavern.

The tavern was hot and smoky with the fumes of crackling tallow candles. A black, gleaming Urgal horn was nailed above the doorway, as wide as Eragon's outstretched arms. The tavern was long and low-ceilinged, with a pile of thin wood sticks at one end for customers to carve. Moone, sleeves rolled up, was serving patrons. The lower half of his face was short and hideous, as if he had once pressed his chin against a grindstone. People sat around sturdy oak tables, listening to two merchants speak. They had concluded their business early and come here to drink a few mugs of ale.

Moone looked over the cup he was wiping. "Eragon! Good to see you. Where's your uncle?"

"Buying things," Eragon said with a shrug. "He'll come later."

"And Roran? Is he here?" Moone asked, wiping another cup with a cloth.

"He is. No sick livestock held him back this year."

"Good, good."

Eragon pointed at the two merchants. "Who are they?"

"Grain merchants. They bought grain at absurdly low prices, and now they're here spouting nonsense, thinking we'll believe them!"

Eragon understood why Moone was angry. People needed the money from selling grain. Without it, they could not live. "What are they saying?"

Moone snorted. "They say the Varden and the Urgals have joined forces and are preparing to attack us. They think we have enjoyed peace all these years because of the king's grace—as if Galbatorix would care if we were razed to the ground... Go listen for yourself. I have too much to do to repeat their lies."

The first merchant's immense waist filled his entire chair. Every movement made the chair groan as if protesting. His face was utterly bare, not a single eyebrow in sight, and his fat hands were as smooth as a baby's. Whenever he sipped from his jug, his protruding lips pushed desperately forward. The other merchant had a red face, a large hard chin packed with firm fat like rancid, dried butter. In stark contrast to his bloated head and neck, his body was unusually thin.

The first merchant vainly tried to stuff the fat spilling over his chair back into place. "No, no, you don't understand. You are able to sit here safely and argue with us only because of the king's long protection. With all his wisdom, if he withdrew it, you would be finished!"

Someone shouted, "Fine! Why don't you say the Dragon Riders have returned too, and each of you has killed a hundred little elves? Do you think we're children, so easily fooled? We can take care of ourselves." A burst of laughter swept through the crowd.

The fat man was about to answer, but his thin companion raised a hand to stop him. Gaudy gems glittered on his fingers. "You misunderstand. Everyone knows the Empire cannot personally take care of each and every one of us, although perhaps you wish it could. But it can stop the Urgals and other evil forces from ravaging this..." He searched vaguely for an acceptable word. "Place."

The merchant continued, "Your resentment and belief that the Empire treats its people unfairly are understandable, but no government can satisfy every person. Arguments and conflict are inevitable. Yet most of us truly have little to complain about. Every nation has a small group of opponents dissatisfied with the current order."

"That's right," a woman shouted. "If you call all the Varden a small group!"

The fat man sighed. "As we have said, the Varden do not care for your welfare. Any hope placed in them is entirely mistaken. That hope comes from long years of deception by traitors, whose purpose is to divide the Empire and make us believe that the true threat lies within our borders rather than beyond them. Their sole intent is to overthrow the nation and seize our lands. They plant spies everywhere in preparation for invasion. You never know who serves them."

Eragon disapproved, but the merchant's words were persuasive, and people began to nod. He stepped forward through the crowd. "How do you know any of that? I could say clouds are green, but that would not make it true. Show us proof." The two merchants glared at him. The villagers fell silent, waiting for their answer.

The thin merchant spoke first. Avoiding Eragon's eyes, he said, "Do your children know nothing of manners? Or do you allow them to contradict adults whenever they please?"

A stir went through the audience. Everyone looked at Eragon. Then a voice said, "Answer his question."

"It is merely common sense," the fat man said, sweat beading on his upper lip. That answer angered the villagers, and the argument flared up once more.

Eragon returned to the bar, a sour feeling rising in his chest. He had never seen anyone who favored the Empire and slandered its enemies as a result. The people of Carvahall bore a deep-rooted hatred for the entire Empire, a trait that had almost become hereditary. In hard years, the country had never given the villagers aid, leaving them to struggle on the brink of starvation. Its tax collectors were always as ravenous as wolves and hard-hearted as stone. He had ample reason to oppose the merchants' praise of the king, but he also had reservations about the Varden.

The Varden were rebels, endlessly attacking and harassing the Empire. Galbatorix sought to wipe them out completely, while their resistance won them a great deal of sympathy. Who led them, and who had organized them after Galbatorix began gaining power a century ago, remained a mystery. All people knew was that if you were a fugitive forced to hide from the world, or someone who hated the Empire with a bitter vengeance, they would accept you. The only question was how to find them. Beyond that, the outside world knew nothing.

Moone leaned across the bar and said, "Hard to believe, isn't it? They're worse than vultures circling a dying animal. If they stay much longer, there'll be trouble."

"Trouble for them or for us?"

"Them." No sooner had Moone spoken than a roar rang through the tavern. Eragon left just as the dispute was about to turn violent. The door slammed behind him, cutting off the din. Night was approaching. The setting sun slanted westward, and long shadows from the houses overlapped across the ground. Eragon headed down the street and saw Roran and Katrina standing together in a quiet alley.

Eragon could not hear what Roran said. He only saw Katrina lower her eyes to her hands and answer softly. Then she rose on tiptoe, kissed him, and ran away like the wind. Eragon hurried forward and teased, "Having fun?" Roran mumbled something indistinct as he walked.

"Did you hear the news the merchants brought?" Eragon asked, following him. Most of the villagers remained indoors, talking with the merchants or waiting for darkness to fall so the performers could begin.

"I heard." Roran seemed distracted. "What do you think of Sloan?"

"What is there to think?"

"If he finds out about Katrina and me, he'll make trouble for me," Roran said. A snowflake landed on Eragon's nose. He looked up and saw that the sky had turned gray and heavy. For a moment, he could think of nothing suitable to say. He merely gripped his cousin's shoulder hard and kept walking beside him.

Supper at Horst's house was lavish. Booming conversation and hearty laughter filled the room, while sweet fruit juice and rich ale disappeared in great quantities at astonishing speed. It was a scene of revelry. When the meal was over, the guests left the house and strolled toward the merchants' camp. Wooden stakes had been driven around a large open space, candles burning atop them. A bonfire blazed in one corner, casting leaping black shadows across the ground. The villagers slowly gathered into a circle, waiting eagerly in the cold.

The performers, dressed in costumes hung with tassels, tumbled out of their tent in a string of somersaults, followed by an older, steady musician. The musician played the music and told the stories, while his performer companions acted out the characters and events. At first, the show was purely entertainment: crude and vulgar, full of jokes, ridiculous antics, and absurd characters. Yet as the candles burned low and the circle of people pressed closer, the old storyteller Brom stepped forth slowly. His tangled white beard stirred over his chest, and a long black cloak protected his bent shoulders and wrapped his body. He spread his arms, his hands stretched like bird claws, and told the following tale:

"The sands of time never cease to fall. Whether we wish it or not, time once gone does not return... Yet we still have memory. What is lost may endure within memory. What you are about to hear is but scattered pearls and broken jade, yet cherish them well, for without you, they too shall cease to exist. I now give you a piece of history long forgotten, hidden in the dreamlike mist behind us."

His sharp gaze passed over the intent faces of the crowd before finally resting on Eragon.

"Before your grandfathers' fathers were born—yes, even before their fathers—the Dragon Riders existed. Protection and guardianship were their duty, and for thousands of years they fulfilled it admirably. In battle, they were nearly unmatched, for each possessed the strength of ten men. They were immortal, unless struck down by blade or poison. They fought only for justice, and beneath their protection, towering cities and castles stood firm as rock. With them guarding the peace, the four corners of the land were rich and fertile. In that golden age, the elves were our allies, and the dwarves were our friends. Wealth flowed ceaselessly into the cities, and the people lived in peace and plenty. But alas... the splendor of old is no more."

Brom lowered his eyes and fell silent. When he spoke again, endless grief filled his voice.

"No enemy could destroy them, but they could not withstand themselves. At the height of the Dragon Riders' power, a boy named Galbatorix was born in the Province of Inzilbeth, a place that no longer exists. At the age of ten, according to the custom of the time, he underwent selection and was found to possess astonishing potential. The Dragon Riders accepted him into their ranks.

"He received and passed every form of training, excelling in all arts. With the quick mind and strong body granted him by heaven, he soon rose among the Dragon Riders. Some sensed danger beneath his swift ascent and warned of it. But the Dragon Riders had grown increasingly proud of their power and paid no heed to counsel. Alas, tragedy began taking shape from that day onward.

"Everything came with terrible swiftness. Not long after completing his training, Galbatorix set out on a reckless journey with two companions. Traveling day and night, they secretly made their way to the far north, deep into what remained of Urgal territory, foolishly believing their newly learned abilities would protect them. On a hundred-zhang ice field that had not melted for ages, they were attacked in their sleep. Though his companions and their dragons were killed, and he himself was badly wounded, Galbatorix slew his attackers. But tragically, his dragon was struck in the heart by a stray arrow during the battle. Helpless, not knowing how to save her, he watched her die in his arms. Thus was the seed of madness planted in the soil."

The storyteller clasped his hands and slowly looked around. The firelight flickered over his face, and his words sounded like the long, mournful bells of a memorial mass.

"Alone, stripped of most of his strength, and nearly driven mad by failure, Galbatorix wandered aimlessly across that desolate land, seeking only death in his despair. But death did not come, though he faced every living thing like a man beyond all hope. Urgals and other monsters fled at the sight of him, as if he were possessed by a fierce ghost. Then he thought that perhaps the Dragon Riders would give him another dragon. Encouraged by that thought, he began the arduous journey home on foot through the Spine. The mountains and rivers he had once crossed easily on dragonback now took him months to traverse step by step. He could have hunted animals with magic, but he often passed through places where even animals had never trod. Thus, when his feet finally carried him out of the forest, he was at death's door. A farmer found him collapsed in a swamp and summoned the Dragon Riders.

"Unconscious, he was taken back to their camp. His physical wounds healed, and during four days of sleep he showed no sign of madness in his mind. Later, he was brought before the council of elders for judgment. It was then that he demanded another dragon. The urgency of his demand exposed his madness and showed the council his true nature. After Galbatorix was refused, he abandoned hope. His reason, warped by madness, came to believe that his dragon's death was entirely the fault of the other Dragon Riders. Night after night, he brooded and plotted revenge."

Brom's voice lowered, taking on a hypnotic power.

"He found a Dragon Rider who felt sympathy for him and used a silver tongue to win that man's trust. Through constant persuasion and incitement, while employing sinister sorcery learned from a Shade, he stirred rebellion against the elders within that Rider's heart. Together, they devised a plan to lure one elder into a trap and murder him. Once that evil deed was done, Galbatorix turned upon his accomplice and killed him without warning. The Dragon Riders discovered him then, blood streaming from his hands. A shriek tore from his throat, and he vanished into the vast darkness of night. Even in madness, he did not lose his cunning, and the Dragon Riders could not find his trail for a time.

"For years, he hid from pursuit like a hunted beast roaming wild mountains and wastelands, never knowing peace. His cruelty was not forgotten, but after so much time had passed, the hunt for him loosened. In a chain of ill fortune, he encountered a young Dragon Rider named Morzan, a man strong in limbs but simple in mind. Galbatorix persuaded Morzan to leave a door open in Ilirea, a citadel now called Urubaen. Through that door, he slipped inside and stole a young dragon.

"He and his new follower hid in an evil place where even Dragon Riders dared not venture. There Morzan began his secret studies, learning hidden arts and forbidden skills that should never have seen daylight. When Morzan completed his training and the stolen black dragon Shruikan had fully grown, Galbatorix rose again. With Morzan at his side as a tiger's accomplice, they fought every Dragon Rider they encountered. Each killing of an innocent life increased their evil strength. Twelve Dragon Riders, greedy for power and driven by a desire to avenge injustices they believed they had suffered, joined Galbatorix. Those twelve, together with Morzan, became the Thirteen Forsworn. The Dragon Riders were caught unprepared and fell one after another beneath their attacks. The elves too could not escape disaster. After bitter battle with Galbatorix, they were defeated and forced to flee to hidden lands, withdrawing from the world forever.

"Only Vrael, leader of the Dragon Riders, could resist Galbatorix and the Forsworn. Revered for age and virtue, wise and brilliant, he fought to save what he could and keep the surviving dragons from being butchered by the enemy. In the final battle, before the gates of Doru Araeba, Vrael defeated Galbatorix. Yet at the decisive blow, compassion made him hesitate. Galbatorix seized the chance and struck him heavily. Vrael was gravely wounded and fled to Mount Utgard, hoping to regain his strength there. But his chance was gone, for Galbatorix found him. In their fight, Galbatorix kicked Vrael in the groin and gained the advantage through that vicious, underhanded blow. With a burning sword, he cut off Vrael's head.

"Power surged and roared through his veins, and Galbatorix crowned himself king of Alagaësia.

"From that time onward, he has ruled us to this day."

When the story ended, Brom shuffled away with the performers. Eragon dimly saw a tear gleaming on his cheek. The people dispersed in hushed whispers. Garrow said to Eragon and Roran, "Do you know how lucky you are? I have only heard that story twice in my life. If the Empire learned Brom had told it, he would not live to see next month."

That night, after they returned home from Carvahall, Eragon decided to test the stone as Merlock had. Alone in his room, he placed the stone on his bed with three tools beside it. He began with a wooden mallet and tapped the stone lightly. It gave a faint, crisp sound. Satisfied, Eragon picked up the second tool, a leatherworker's hammer. This time the sound was a low, muffled resonance. Finally, he struck at it with a small chisel. The stone remained entirely unharmed, producing only an extraordinarily clear ringing. As the echoes faded, he thought he heard a faint cracking sound.

Merlock said the stone is hollow. Maybe there's something valuable hidden inside. But I have no idea how to open it. Whoever shaped it must have had a deep purpose. Whoever sent this stone into the Spine does not seem to have tried very hard to retrieve it, and yet perhaps he does not know where it was lost. But I cannot believe a sorcerer could transport a stone and lack the power to find it again. Does that mean I am destined to possess this strange stone? Unable to answer, he gave up pondering the mystery, put away the tools, and returned the stone to the shelf.

During the night, he suddenly woke from sleep. He listened closely, but all was silent. Uneasily, he reached beneath his mattress and gripped the hilt of his knife. After waiting quietly for several minutes, he slowly drifted back into sleep.

A sharp sound shattered the silence, waking him again. He rolled off the bed, drew his knife with a hiss, then fumbled for the tinderbox and lit a candle. The door was firmly closed. Though a mouse could not have made such a loud sound, he checked beneath the bed anyway. There was nothing there. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes to drive away sleepiness. Then it came again, and he sprang up in alarm.

Where was the sound coming from? It could not be the floor or walls; both were made of solid wood, and so was the bedframe. If something had crept into the straw stuffing of his mattress during the night, he would have found it long ago. Seeing the blue stone, he casually picked it up from the shelf and held it in confusion as he continued searching the room. The same sound reached his ears again, this time from between his fingers. It came from the stone.

The stone had brought him nothing but disappointment and anger, and now it would not even let him sleep! Yet it remained unmoved by Eragon's furious glare, lying steadily in his hands and giving the occasional faint squeak. Then it suddenly gave another sharp, hurried sound and fell silent. Eragon carefully set it down and crawled back beneath the covers. Whatever tremendous secret the stone held could wait until morning, after he had slept.

When he woke again, moonlight shone through the window, filling the room with brilliance. The stone shook violently on the shelf, banging against the wall. Bathed in moonlight, it seemed covered in a veil of white gauze. Eragon leaped from bed, knife in hand. The stone stopped, but every muscle in his body remained taut. Then it began squeaking again, shaking even harder than before.

With a curse, Eragon began dressing. He did not care how valuable the stone was; he would bury it deep beneath the earth. The shaking stopped, and the stone became calm once more. Yet it soon began vibrating again, rolled forward, and fell heavily to the floor with a thud. Slowly, it moved toward him. Eragon was terrified and edged backward toward the door.

Suddenly, a crack appeared on the stone. Then another, and another. Eragon froze, leaning forward with his knife still clutched in his hand. At the point where the cracks met upon the stone's surface, a small fragment trembled as though something beneath it was pushing upward. Then it lifted and fell to the floor. After another series of squeaks, a small dark head emerged from the opening, followed by a strange, angular body. Eragon gripped his knife tighter, not even a hair upon him stirring. Soon the little creature had crawled entirely out of the stone. It stood dazed for a moment, then began moving about in the moonlight.

Eragon's heart jolted, and he recoiled. The little creature before him, licking the membrane from its body, was a dragon.

The dragon was no longer than Eragon's forearm, yet it possessed a noble, majestic air. Its scales were dark blue, exactly like the stone. Not a stone, Eragon realized. An egg. The dragon spread its wings; they were what had made it seem so strange at first. They were several times the length of its body, with long, thin bones extending from the leading edge like ribs, holding them open in lines like enormous outstretched claws. The dragon's head was nearly triangular, and two small curved fangs extended downward from its upper jaw, looking very sharp. Its claws were white as carved ivory, with slight spines along their inner edges. A line of tiny serrations ran down the creature's spine, from its head to the tip of its tail, but there was a shallow depression where its neck met its shoulders, making the gap between two serrations there wider than elsewhere.

Eragon moved his feet softly. The hatchling turned its little head, opening and closing its mouth, and fixed him with a pair of majestic ice-blue eyes. He remained quiet. If this dragon attacked, it would surely be a terrifying enemy.

The hatchling lost interest in Eragon and began awkwardly investigating the room. It frequently bumped into furniture and walls, giving off squeaking cries. After flapping its wings a few times, it jumped onto the bed, burrowed into Eragon's pillow, and chirped without end. Its mouth opened pitifully like a helpless fledgling's, revealing two rows of sharp teeth. Eragon cautiously sat at the head of the bed. The dragon sniffed his hand and lightly bit his sleeve. He quickly pulled his hand back.

A smile rose to Eragon's lips as he watched the small creature. Then, testing it, he extended his right hand and touched its side. Instantly, an ice-cold force surged through his palm and shot up his arm, flooding through his veins like blazing lava. He screamed and fell backward. The clash of metal filled his ears, along with a soundless roar. Every part of his body burned with pain, and he could not move despite exhausting all his strength. After what seemed like several hours, warmth finally returned to his limbs. They began trembling violently, utterly beyond his control. He sat up. His hand was numb, his fingers without feeling. In horror, he saw a faintly glowing white oval mark with blurred edges on his palm. The skin there itched and burned, as if a spider had bitten him. His heart began pounding madly.

Eragon blinked, trying to understand what had happened. Something unknown brushed through his mind, clear as fingers tracing skin. When the sensation rose again, it condensed into an awareness that grew and wound like a vine. Through it, Eragon felt a swelling curiosity. It was as though an invisible wall inside his mind had collapsed with a crash. Now his will had gained boundless freedom and could soar wherever it wished. If it broke free of all restraint, perhaps his soul would leave his body and never return, becoming a transparent spirit in the air. Fear seized him, and he hurriedly drew his thoughts inward. When he closed his eyes, the strange feeling vanished. Puzzled, he stared at the motionless dragon.

A scaled leg touched him, and he jumped away. But this time, no shocking power came. Confused, he stroked the hatchling's head with his right hand. Only a faint vibration traveled up his arm. The hatchling arched like a cat and rubbed its nose against him. One of his fingers slipped gently over the membrane of its wing. It felt like old parchment, supple and warm, though still faintly damp, with countless fine blood vessels running through it.

Again, that vine-like awareness stretched into his mind. This time he felt not curiosity, but an irresistible and overwhelming hunger. He sighed and stood. He was certain that the creature before him was dangerous. Yet it curled on his bed looking so weak and helpless. He wondered secretly whether keeping it would bring disaster. The hatchling gave a plaintive cry, as if begging for food. Eragon quickly rubbed its head reassuringly to calm it. I'll think about that later, he decided, then left the room and carefully closed the door behind him.

He returned carrying two strips of dried meat and found the dragon sitting on the windowsill, looking up at the moon. He cut the meat into small pieces and offered it one. It sniffed warily, then its head darted out and back like a snake's, snatching the meat from his hand. Its neck moved strangely as it swallowed the piece whole without chewing, then it nudged Eragon's hand to show that it had not eaten enough.

He fed it carefully, afraid it would bite his fingers. By the time only the last piece remained, the hatchling's stomach had already bulged. He offered it the meat. The dragon considered for a moment, then lazily ate it. After the meal, it climbed onto Eragon's hand, curled into a ball against his chest, and snorted. A small puff of black smoke rose from its nostrils. Eragon stared in astonishment.

Just as Eragon thought it had fallen asleep, the hatchling's throat trembled and it gave a low hum. He gently placed it beside the pillow on his bed. With its eyes closed, it contentedly curled its tail around the bedpost. Eragon lay beside it, clenching his marked palm in the darkness.

He faced a painful dilemma: if he adopted this dragon, he might become a Dragon Rider. The myths and stories of the Dragon Riders were treasured by people, and becoming one of them would naturally make him part of legend. But if the Empire discovered the dragon, he and his family would face utter ruin unless he was willing to join the king. No one could—or would—help them. The simplest solution was to kill the dragon, but the thought was abhorrent, and he immediately rejected it. Dragons were too sacred in his heart for him even to consider such a thing. Besides, where could word leak out? We live in the middle of nowhere. We have always been left to fend for ourselves.

The problem was how to persuade Garrow and Roran to let him keep it. Neither of them would like having a dragon nearby. I could raise it in secret. In another month or two, it will be large enough that Garrow won't be able to get rid of it. But would he accept it then? Even if he could, could I find enough meat while it remains hidden? It is no bigger than a kitten, yet it ate a whole handful of meat! I suppose eventually it will hunt for itself, but how long will that take? Can it survive outside in this frozen world of ice and snow? Yet the more he thought, the more firmly he resolved to keep the dragon. Whatever Uncle Garrow's reaction might be later, he would do everything in his power to protect it. Once he had made up his mind, he finally slept peacefully, with the dragon curled beside him.

At dawn, the dragon sat atop the bedpost like a sentinel from ancient times, greeting the arrival of a new day. Eragon could not help being dazzled by its fantastical color. He had never seen blue so pure or so deep. The scales covering its body were like hundreds of tiny jewels linked together. The white oval mark on his palm, where he had touched the dragon the day before, now gleamed with silver light. Eragon planned to keep his hands dirty at all times to hide it from others.

The dragon jumped from the post and landed lightly on the floor. Eragon carefully picked it up and left the silent house. Before going outside, he stopped to take some meat, several leather cords, and as many scraps of cloth as he could carry. The dry, cold morning was beautiful, fresh snow covering the fields. He looked down at the little creature and could not help smiling. It poked its head from the safety of his arms, eagerly looking in every direction.

He hurried across the fields and slipped quietly into the dark forest, seeking a safe place for the hatchling to live. At last, on a barren hill, he found a lonely rowan tree whose snow-covered branches stretched toward the sky. He set the dragon beneath its roots and shook out the leather cords onto the ground.

The cords were old, but still strong enough. With quick, practiced movements, he fashioned a collar and slipped it over the hatchling's head. It crawled everywhere, exploring the snow-covered bushes around the tree. Eragon watched for a while, then removed the collar from its neck and improvised a harness around its legs so it would not strangle itself while moving. Next, he gathered a large bundle of firewood and built a rough shelter amid the branches. He lined it layer by layer with scraps of cloth, then hid the meat inside. Snowflakes fell on his face, and the rowan tree swayed gently. He hung more cloth across the front of the shelter to keep it warm. Finally, he looked over his work with satisfaction.

"I'll show you your new home now." He lifted the dragon onto a branch. It twisted unwillingly, trying to escape, but eventually crawled into the shelter. There it ate a piece of meat, curled up, and blinked shyly at him. "As long as you stay here obediently, you'll be safe," he told it. The hatchling blinked again.

He knew it did not understand. So Eragon reached out with his mind until he sensed the hatchling's awareness. Once more, that terrifying sensation came over him: an endless openness, a vast boundless space rushing toward him and pressing down like a heavy blanket. Gathering his courage, he focused all his attention on the dragon and tried to impress a thought upon it: Stay here. Don't go out. The dragon remained still, lifting its head high before him. He thought more intensely: Stay here. Don't go out. Through their exchange of awareness, Eragon felt a vague, hesitant understanding come from it, though he doubted it truly understood. After all, it was only an animal. He ended the mental contact, relieved. Having only his own awareness inside his mind made him feel safe.

Eragon left the tree, constantly looking back as he walked. The hatchling poked its head from the shelter, its large eyes watching him go farther and farther away.

He hurried home two steps at a time, slipped back into his room, and disposed of the egg fragments. He believed Garrow and Roran would not notice that the egg was gone—after learning it could not be sold, they had lost interest in it. Everyone was awake. Roran mentioned hearing some noises during the night. To Eragon's great relief, he did not pursue the matter.

Eragon was immersed in excitement, and the day seemed to pass especially quickly. The mark on his hand was not difficult to conceal, and he soon stopped worrying about it. Before long, he ran back to the rowan tree, carrying sausages stolen from the cellar. All the way there, he worried: Will the dragon freeze to death outside in winter?

It proved that he had been worrying over nothing. The hatchling crouched in the tree, gripping something in its foreclaws and eating with gusto. When it saw Eragon, it gave an excited high-pitched cry. He was pleased to find that it had obediently remained in the tree, beyond the reach of large predators. He tossed the sausages beneath the tree, and the dragon floated down. While it wolfed them down, Eragon examined the shelter. The meat he had left was completely gone. Everything else was unchanged, except for a messy pile of feathers inside. Excellent—it could find food for itself.

Whether the dragon was "he" or "she" troubled Eragon. He picked it up and turned it this way and that, ignoring its protesting squeals. But he found no obvious sign. It seemed that without a struggle, it would not surrender any of its secrets.

They spent a long time together. He untied it, placed it on his shoulder, and wandered through the forest with it. Great trees stood clad in snow. Seen from above, they were like travelers moving between the solemn pillars of a cathedral. In the unpeopled silence, Eragon told the dragon everything he knew about the forest, whether it understood or not. Sharing was what mattered. He spoke to it constantly, while the hatchling watched him with bright, unblinking eyes, seeming to listen to every word. For a while, he simply sat holding it, staring in astonishment, still shaken by what had happened. When the sun set, Eragon headed home, feeling two stern blue eyes fixed on his back in resentment at being left alone.

That night, he imagined every terrible thing that might happen to a small, helpless creature. He thought of ice storms and savage beasts tormenting it. Hours passed before he finally fell asleep, dreaming of foxes and black wolves tearing open its body with bloodstained teeth.

At dawn, Eragon ran from the house with food and old clothes, intending to insulate the dragon's shelter further. He found the dragon already awake and safe, watching the rising sun from high in the tree. He thanked every god he knew and every god he did not know. As he approached the tree, the dragon climbed down and leaped into his arms, pressing tightly against his chest. The cold had not harmed it, but it looked badly frightened, black smoke puffing from its nostrils. Eragon comforted it, stroking it gently as he sat with his back against the rowan tree and murmured softly. He remained still as the hatchling buried its head in his coat. After a while, it emerged from his arms and climbed onto his shoulder. He fed it, then wrapped the cloth he had brought around the outside of the shelter. They played for a while, but Eragon could not stay long and had to return.

A path was quickly trampled into being. Every morning, Eragon slipped to the tree with breakfast for the dragon, then hurried back. He worked during the day, and the moment he finished, he rushed to visit the hatchling. Garrow and Roran both noticed his odd behavior and asked why he kept running outside. Eragon only shrugged in reply. After that, whenever he went into the woods, he was very careful to see whether anyone was following him.

After the first few days passed, he no longer worried that disaster would befall the dragon. It grew at an astonishing pace, and before long, most dangers could no longer harm it. In just one week, the hatchling doubled in size. Four days later, it had grown as tall as Eragon's knee. The nest in the rowan tree could no longer hold it, so Eragon had to build it a concealed shelter on the ground. That took him three days.

When the dragon was half a month old, Eragon had to let it roam freely, for its appetite was truly enormous. The first time he removed the harness, only his will kept it from following him. Every time it tried to come home with him, he stopped it with his thoughts, until it learned to avoid the farmhouse and the people inside.

He also impressed upon the dragon that it could hunt only in the Spine, where there was less chance of being discovered. If animals in Palancar Valley gradually began disappearing, the farmers would certainly notice something amiss. Whenever the dragon was far away, Eragon felt relieved and worried at the same time.

The mental link between him and the dragon strengthened day by day. He discovered that although the dragon could not understand language, he could communicate with it through images and emotions in his mind. Yet it was not an exact method, and it often misunderstood him. The range of their mental communication expanded greatly. Soon, so long as the dragon was within three leagues, Eragon could remain in contact with it. He did so often, and the dragon would respond with faint thoughts of its own. That wordless conversation filled every day of his work. Some part of him was always inseparable from the dragon, at every moment and in every place, never forgetting it. When he spoke with other people, the connection was disturbed, like a fly buzzing around his ear.

As the dragon grew, its high-pitched squeals became deeper and gradually turned into roars. Its old humming sounds slowly became rumbles. Yet it had not begun breathing fire, which was what concerned him. He had seen it emit black smoke when it was unhappy, but never even the smallest spark.

A month passed, and the dragon's shoulders had reached Eragon's elbow. In that short time, it had transformed completely, changing from a weak little creature into a mighty beast. Its scales were as tough as chain mail, and its teeth were sharp as daggers.

Eragon often took long walks through the forest at dusk, the dragon following softly beside him. When they reached a clearing, he would sit with his back against a tree and watch the dragon flap through the air. He loved watching it fly, though he regretted that it was not yet large enough to ride. He often sat beside it, rubbing its neck and feeling the knotted, flexing muscles beneath his palm.

Despite Eragon's efforts to avoid it, the woods around the fields became filled with signs of the dragon's presence. It was impossible to erase its tracks from the snow. Its enormous four-toed prints sank deeply into the drifts. Nor had he ever tried to bury its huge piles of dung, which now lay everywhere. The dragon brushed against trees and stripped away sheets of bark. It sharpened its claws on deadwood too, leaving grooves several inches deep. If Garrow or Roran ever ventured farther from the farm, they would certainly discover the dragon's existence. Eragon could think of no worse way to confess, so he decided to act first and tell them everything himself.

But he decided to do two things first: give the dragon a suitable name, and learn more about dragons. To accomplish that, he needed to speak with Brom. Brom knew countless epics and legends—the last fruitful ground where knowledge of dragons remained.

So when Roran needed to go to Carvahall to repair a chisel, Eragon volunteered to go with him.