Section Three

On the evening of the day they were to leave, Eragon went to a small clearing in the forest and called to his dragon in his mind. After a while, he first saw a rapidly moving speck in the darkening sky. Then the dragon hurtled down toward him, only to abruptly climb again in an instant, soaring into the heavens before gliding steadily just above the treetops, its wings stirring a low, mournful sound as they cleaved the air. It banked sharply, wheeled down slowly to his left, and beat its wings backward to keep its balance before landing. With a dull thud, it touched down safely.

Eragon stretched out his will as far as he could and told the dragon that he was going away. Even now, he had not grown accustomed to that strange sensation. It snorted uneasily. Eragon formed an image of peace in his mind, trying to soothe it. But the dragon lashed the ground with its tail, still restless and agitated. He laid a hand on its shoulder, hoping to convey calmness and composure. As he gently patted its body, the scales beneath his fingers gave off a faint metallic clink.

A voice called into his mind, deep and clear.

Eragon.

The voice was solemn and weighty, as though it were forging an eternal bond. Eragon stared at the dragon, a chill creeping up his arm.

Eragon.

Deep, sapphire eyes gazed back at him. It felt as though a hard lump had lodged in Eragon's stomach. For the first time, he did not see the dragon as an animal. It was another kind of living being, utterly unlike every animal... He ran home, fleeing from the dragon's side. That is my dragon.

Eragon.

Eragon parted from Roran outside the village and slowly made his way alone toward Brom's house, lost in thought the whole way. He stopped outside the door and raised his hand, about to knock.

A rough voice said, "What do you want, boy?"

He spun around and saw Brom standing behind him, leaning on a strangely carved walking stick. He wore a brown hooded cloak like a priest's, with a tobacco pouch hanging from his old leather belt. Above a great snow-white beard, a huge hooked nose squatted prominently in the center of his face. Deep-set eyes stared at Eragon from beneath bushy brows, awaiting his answer.

"I came to ask you something," Eragon said. "Roran is looking for someone to mend his chisel, and I had nothing to do, so I came to ask you a few questions."

The old man grumbled and reached for the door. Eragon noticed that Brom wore a gold ring on his right hand. Its sapphire gleamed, and a strange symbol showed on its surface. "Come in too. We will be talking for a long time. Your questions never end." Inside, the house was blacker than charcoal and filled with a pungent smell. "Now then, we need a fire." Eragon heard the old man moving about in the darkness, then something toppled onto the floor, followed by his curses. "Ah, found it." A bright white spark flashed, and then a tiny flame wavered into life.

Brom stood before the fireplace holding the candle. An intricately carved high-backed wooden chair faced the mantel, surrounded by heaps of books. All four legs of the chair were carved in the shape of eagle talons, while its back and seat were covered with leather cushions embossed with raised, swirling rose patterns. Smaller chairs bore stacks of scrolls, and ink bottles and quills lay scattered across the writing desk. "Find yourself somewhere to sit, and be careful. These things are very valuable."

Eragon stepped over parchments covered in strange symbols, carefully lifted brittle scrolls from a chair, and set them on the floor. A cloud of dust rose when he sat down, making him sneeze.

Brom bent over and lit the hearth with his candle. "Good. There is nothing more comfortable than talking beside a fire." He pushed back his hood, revealing hair that was not the snowy white Eragon had expected, but silver in color. He hung a teapot over the fire, then settled into the high-backed chair.

"Now, what do you want to know?" he asked, serious yet kindly.

"Well..." Eragon pondered how best to lead into his questions. "I keep hearing people mention the Dragon Riders and their legendary, extraordinary powers. Almost everyone hopes they will return. But I have never heard about their origins, where dragons came from, or what made the Riders exceptional besides having dragons beside them."

"A broad subject," Brom muttered, shooting Eragon a sharp glance. "If I told you every tale about them, we would still be sitting here when next winter came. We must make a long story short. But before we begin, I need a pipe."

Eragon waited patiently while Brom packed tobacco into it. He liked Brom. The old man could be irritable and quick-tempered at times, but he never seemed unwilling to spend time with Eragon. Eragon had once asked where he came from. Brom had laughed and answered, "A little village much like Carvahall, only less interesting." Curious, Eragon had asked his uncle about it. But all Garrow knew was that about fifteen years ago, Brom had bought a house in Carvahall and had lived here quietly ever since.

Brom lit his pipe with a tinderbox, puffed out several clouds of smoke, and said, "Once I begin, do not interrupt me—except to drink tea. Hmm, where should I begin with the Dragon Riders, or Shur'tugal, as the elves called them? They dominated the land for countless years, and at the height of their power, they ruled a territory twice the size of the present Empire. Innumerable tales speak of them, most of them pure invention. If you believed every version completely, you would expect them to possess powers second only to the gods. Scholars have spent their lives trying to separate myth from fact, but whether anyone has succeeded is doubtful. Still, if we confine ourselves to the three matters you raised, the task is not impossible: the rise of the Dragon Riders, why they held such lofty status, and where dragons came from. I will begin with the last." Eragon leaned back in his chair and listened to the old man's soothing voice.

"The history of dragons has no beginning, unless you count the beginning of Alagaësia itself. And if it must have an end, that end will be the end of this world, for they are as enduring and tenacious as the earth. They, along with the dwarves and certain other races, were native to this land and lived here before the other peoples arrived. They prospered and took pride in the glory they were born with. Their world remained unchanged from time immemorial, until the first elves sailed here across the great ocean in silver ships."

"Where did the elves come from?" Eragon interrupted. "Why are they called the Fair Folk? Do elves really exist?"

Brom frowned. "Do you want answers to those three questions or not? If you chase down every point that puzzles you, you will never learn anything."

"I'm sorry," Eragon said, lowering his head and putting on an utterly remorseful look.

"No, you are not," Brom said with a trace of amusement. He looked away, watching the fire lick at the bottom of the teapot again and again. "If you insist on knowing, the elves are not creatures of legend. They are called the Fair Folk because they truly are more graceful and kinder than the other races. They say they came from a place called Alalea, but what that place is like and where it lies, no one knows except themselves."

"Now," his eyes shot out from beneath brows thick as brushes, stressing that Eragon was not to interrupt again, "the elves were very proud in those days. Their magic was powerful, and they believed dragons were merely animals. That misunderstanding ultimately led to a fatal mistake. A rash young elf happened to wound a dragon, as though it were an ordinary stag, and then killed it. The dragons were enraged. They ambushed and slew the elf. Unfortunately, the bloodshed did not end there. The dragons gathered and launched an attack against the entire elven empire. The elves were deeply distressed by this terrible misunderstanding and desperately wished to turn spears and shields into jade and silk, but they could find no good way to communicate with the dragons.

"To make a long story short, this gave rise to a bloody tempest that both sides would later regret bitterly. At first, the elves sought only to defend themselves, not to kill their enemies, but the dragons' savage assaults forced them to fight back for survival. The war lasted five years, and if not for an elf named Eragon finding a dragon egg, who knew how long it might have continued?" Hearing this, Eragon blinked repeatedly in surprise. "Ah, it seems you do not know of this namesake of yours," Brom said.

"No." The teapot shrieked sharply. Why was I given an elven name?

"Then you will find this even more interesting," Brom said. He hooked the teapot off the fire, poured boiling water into two teacups, and handed one to Eragon. "This tea will keep you from sleeping. Drink quickly, before it becomes too strong." Eragon tried to take a small sip but scalded his tongue. Brom set his own cup aside and continued smoking his pipe.

"No one knows why that dragon egg was abandoned. Some say its parents died in an elven attack, while others believe it was deliberately arranged by the dragons. Whatever the case, Eragon realized the far-reaching significance of raising a friendly dragon. So he cared for it in secret and named it Bid'Daum, a name from the ancient language. Once Bid'Daum had grown, the two of them traveled among the dragons, persuading them to live in peace with the elves. The two races eventually forged a treaty, and to ensure that such a tragedy would never happen again, they believed it necessary to establish the order of Dragon Riders.

"At first, the Dragon Riders were intended only as a bond between elves and dragons. But as time passed, their worth was recognized, and they were granted greater powers. Eventually, they made Vroengard their home and built a city there—Doru Araeba. Before Galbatorix overthrew them, the Dragon Riders were more illustrious than every king in Alagaësia at the time. Now, I believe I have answered two of your questions."

"Yes," Eragon said absently. His name had come from the first Dragon Rider. What an unbelievable coincidence. For some reason, he felt differently about his name from then on. "What does Eragon mean?"

"I do not know," Brom said. "It is very ancient. I suspect no one but the elves remembers. But to speak with an elf, one would need the generous favor of the goddess of luck. Still, it is a fine name. You should be proud of it. Not everyone can possess such a noble name."

Eragon pushed the matter from his mind and focused on Brom's story, feeling that something had been left out. "I do not understand. Where were we when the Dragon Riders arose?"

"We?" Brom raised one eyebrow.

"You know, us people," Eragon said, waving a hand vaguely. "Humans."

Brom smiled. "We settled this land later than the elves. It was not until three centuries afterward that our ancestors arrived and joined the Dragon Riders."

"That is impossible," Eragon objected. "We have lived in Palancar Valley since ancient times."

"That may be true if you trace back a few generations, but not farther. Not even for you, Eragon," Brom said gently. "Though you see yourself as part of Garrow's family, and that is not wrong, your ancestors did not live here. Ask around, and you will find many people have not been settled here for very long. This valley is very old. It has not always belonged to us."

Eragon frowned deeply and took a sip of tea. It was still hot enough to scorch his throat. This was his home, no matter who his father was! "What happened to the dwarves after the Dragon Riders fell?"

"No one knows. In the earlier battles, they fought alongside the Dragon Riders. Later, when it became clear that Galbatorix would surely win, they sealed every known entrance to their tunnels and vanished beneath the earth. As far as I know, no one has seen them since."

"And the dragons?" he asked. "What happened to them? They could not all have been killed."

Brom said sadly, "That is Alagaësia's greatest mystery today: how many dragons survived Galbatorix's cold-blooded slaughter? He spared those willing to swear loyalty, but only the dragons of traitors were willing to lend their strength to his madness. If any dragons besides Shruikan survived, they must be hiding, which is why they have never been found."

Then where did my dragon come from? Eragon wondered. "Did giants already exist when the elves came to Alagaësia?" he asked again.

"No. They followed the elves across the sea, like ticks tracking the scent of blood to feed. Their existence gave the Dragon Riders' superb fighting skill and talent for maintaining peace a place to be used. They were one of the reasons the Dragon Riders' existence became all the more precious... There are many lessons to be learned from this history. Sadly, the king has made it a forbidden subject of conversation." Brom sank into thought.

"Yes. The last time I went into the village, I heard you telling that story."

"Story!" Brom shouted angrily, his eyes flashing like lightning. "If that was a story, then the rumors of my death are true, and you are speaking with a ghost right now! Show history respect. You never know what influence it may have on you."

Eragon waited until Brom's expression softened before daring to ask again, "How large are dragons?"

Black smoke curled above Brom's head like the miniature of a storm. "Larger than a house. Even the small ones had wingspans over a hundred feet. They never stopped growing. Some of the oldest dragons, before the king murdered them, could have been mistaken for mountains."

Eragon could not help but panic. How could I possibly hide my dragon in the coming years? Inside, he was already in turmoil, but he tried to keep his voice calm. "At what age are they considered mature?"

"Hmm." Brom stroked his chin. "Five or six months after hatching, they can breathe fire. By then, they are generally fully developed and able to reproduce. The older a dragon is, the longer it can breathe fire. Some can keep it up for minutes." Brom exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it drift toward the ceiling.

"I heard their scales are as colorful and glittering as jewels."

Brom leaned closer to Eragon, his voice low. "What you heard is true. Their scales vary in color and shape. It is said that a gathering of dragons looked like a living rainbow, the colors of their scales constantly shifting and flashing. But who told you that?"

Eragon froze for a moment, then lied, "A merchant."

"What was his name?" Brom pressed. His eyebrows drew together into a thick white line, and deep wrinkles creased his forehead. Without his noticing, his pipe had gone out.

Eragon pretended to think. "I do not know. He said it in Moone's tavern, but I do not know who he was."

"If only you did," Brom murmured.

"He also said Dragon Riders could 'hear' a dragon's thoughts," Eragon said quickly, hoping the imaginary merchant would keep suspicion from falling on him.

Brom narrowed his eyes and slowly took out his tinderbox, striking the flint. Smoke rose again. He drew deeply on his pipe, then slowly exhaled. In an even tone, he said, "He was wrong. I know every story about dragons, but not one mentions that. Did he say anything else?"

Eragon shrugged. "Nothing else." Brom's interest in the merchant was too intense; he could not keep inventing lies. Pretending to be casual, he asked, "Do dragons live long lives?"

Brom did not answer immediately. He lowered his head deeply until his chin touched his chest, tapping his pipe thoughtfully with one finger. His ring flickered in the firelight. "Forgive me, I lost myself in thought. Yes, dragons can live a very long time. In fact, they can live forever, so long as they are not killed and their Riders do not die."

"How could anyone know that?" Eragon questioned. "If a Rider dies, the dragon dies too. That means they can only live sixty or seventy years. In your... account, you said Dragon Riders could live for centuries, but that is impossible." The thought of living alone after his family and friends had died made him feel miserable.

The corners of Brom's mouth rose in a silent smile. "What is possible is a matter of perspective. Some said you could not walk out of the Spine alive, yet you did. It depends on where you stand. You understand so much at such a young age. You must be very clever." Eragon flushed, and the old man chuckled. "Do not be angry. These are things you cannot possibly understand. You forget that dragons possess magic—they can affect everything around them in strange ways. Dragon Riders are closest to them, so they experience those effects most deeply. The most obvious effect is a lengthened lifespan. Our king's long life proves that, though most people credit it to his own magic. There are other changes as well, though less apparent. Every Dragon Rider becomes stronger in body, keener in mind, and broader in vision, beyond what ordinary people can attain. At the same time, when someone becomes a Dragon Rider, their ears gradually grow pointed, though not as sharply as an elf's."

Eragon had to restrain himself fiercely from touching his ears at once. How much more will this dragon change my life? Not only will I change inside, even my body will be different! "Are all dragons intelligent?"

"Have you not been listening?" Brom asked. "How could the elves possibly reach an understanding with a stupid creature and sign a peace treaty? They possess wisdom just like you and me."

"But they are animals," Eragon insisted.

Brom snorted. "They are no more animals than you or I. For some reason, humans praise the great deeds of Dragon Riders to the skies while overlooking the dragons' achievements, imagining they were merely strange mounts that could be ridden from one village to another. But they were not. The Riders' accomplishments were possible only because dragons aided them. If people knew that a gigantic fire-breathing beast—with more wisdom and ability than any king could hope for—would descend from the sky to halt acts of evil, how many would dare draw their swords? Hmm?" He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift lazily away.

"Have you ever seen a dragon?"

"No," Brom said. "That was long before I was born."

Now I have to ask about the name. "I have been trying to remember a dragon's name, but it keeps slipping away from me. I think I heard that merchant mention it the last time I was in Carvahall, but I cannot remember it. Can you help me recall it?"

Brom shrugged and quickly listed a string of names. "There were Jura, Hirador, Fundor—they subdued sea serpents; Galzra, Briam, Ohen the Strong, Gretiem, Beroan, Roslarb..." He continued naming them, until at last he softly breathed one name, his voice almost too faint to hear. "...and Saphira." Brom quietly emptied his pipe and asked Eragon, "Was it one of those?"

"I do not think so," Eragon answered. Brom had already told him too much—enough to think over carefully—and he had been here for a long time. "Roran and Horst may have finished their work already. I should go back, though I do not want to leave yet."

Brom raised one eyebrow again. "What, just like that? I thought I would keep answering your questions until he came looking for you. No questions about dragon tactics? I do not need to describe breathtaking aerial battles? That is all?"

"That is all for now," Eragon said with a smile. "I have learned what I wanted to know, and more besides." He stood, and Brom rose with him.

"Very well, then." He led Eragon to the door. "Goodbye. Be careful. And do not forget—if you remember that merchant's name, tell me."

"I will. Thank you." Eragon stepped into the bright winter sunlight and could not help squinting. He walked slowly onward, recalling everything he had just heard.