Chapter 2

The days that followed were hard to endure, and Eragon was deeply irritable. Unless he was giving brief, simple answers to people's questions, he spoke to no one. Every sign showed that Roran's departure from home was near: Garrow was hurriedly making him a pack; things disappeared from the walls, and the house became strangely empty. It would be a week before he truly realized that a distance had opened between himself and Roran. Talking had become difficult for them both, and everyone felt uneasy.

Saphira was a comfort amid Eragon's gloom. Before her, he spoke without restraint, opening his heart entirely to her. And she understood him better than anyone else. In the two weeks before Roran left home, she grew by leaps and bounds. Her shoulders were now twelve inches across, and rose higher than Eragon's own. He discovered a hollow where her neck met her shoulders, perfectly suited for sitting in. So in the evenings, he often sat there, scratching her neck while explaining the meanings of different words. Before long, she understood everything he said correctly, and often offered her own comments.

For Eragon, time spent with the dragon was always pleasant. Saphira seemed as real and as mysterious as any other person. Her nature was extraordinarily complex, at times utterly unfathomable, yet they had reached a point where their hearts understood each other. Her actions and thoughts continually gave Eragon glimpses of new traits in her character. Once, while hunting, she caught an eagle. She did not eat it, but released it, saying: Hunters of the sky should not perish beneath another's jaws; better to die in flight than lie helpless on the ground.

Eragon's plan to reveal Saphira to his family was abandoned because of Roran's decision and Saphira's own misgivings—she did not want to be seen by others. And he, partly out of selfishness, agreed. Eragon knew that the moment her existence was proclaimed to the world, cries, accusations, and fear would come rushing at him... So the matter was set aside. He told himself that he would wait until the right opportunity arose.

On the night before Roran left, Eragon wanted to find him and say a few words. He came to Roran's open door and saw an oil lamp on the bedside table, coating the walls in warm, flickering light. The shadows of the bedposts stretched long, across the empty cabinet and all the way to the ceiling. Roran—his eyes dim, his back stiff—was rolling clothes and odds and ends into a blanket. Suddenly, Roran paused and picked up something from his pillow, tossing it in his hand. It was a stone Eragon had given him years ago. Roran had meant to wrap it in his belongings too, but he paused again and set it on a shelf in the cabinet. A hard lump rose in Eragon's throat, and he turned away.

Breakfast was cold, but the tea was hot. The frost on the inside of the windows had melted in the morning fire and dripped onto the floor, where the wood absorbed it, leaving pools of dark water stains. Eragon watched Garrow and Roran standing by the hearth and thought quietly, Over the next few months, I will never see them both together again.

Roran sat in a chair tying his boots, his bulging pack beside him. Garrow stood between Roran and Eragon, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His shirt hung loosely on him, while his skin looked stretched tight. No matter how the two young men urged him, he refused to leave with them. When they asked why, he only said it was best this way.

"Have you got everything?" Garrow asked Roran.

"I have."

He nodded, pulled a small purse from his pocket, and handed Roran a jingling handful of coins. "I saved this for you. It isn't much, but it'll be enough if you want to buy some little trinkets or ornaments."

"Thank you. But I won't spend money on ornaments," Roran said.

"Buy whatever you like. It's yours," Garrow said. "As for the rest, there's nothing more I can give you to take away except a father's blessing. Take it if you wish, though it isn't worth much."

Roran was moved, his voice rough. "It would be an honor to receive it."

"Then take it, and go in peace." Garrow kissed his forehead, then turned and said loudly, "Don't think I've forgotten you, Eragon. I have something to say to both of you. The world is about to unfold before you, and the time has come to say these things. Remember them well; they will help you greatly." His grave gaze fixed upon their faces. "First, do not let your will or your body be ruled by others. Treasure freedom of the mind. A man who acts as he pleases may be more bound than a slave; open your ears to others, but not your soul; show respect for the powerful, but do not blindly follow them; judge with logic and reason, but do not make reckless pronouncements.

"Make no one your master, no matter his rank or standing; treat all things fairly, or retribution will surely follow; guard your money carefully; stand firm in your beliefs, and others will follow." His tone softened somewhat. "As for love... my only advice is to be loyal. It is the surest way to open a heart or gain forgiveness. That is all I have to say." He seemed absorbed in his own words.

He lifted Roran's pack. "Now you should go. Dawn is coming, and Dempton is waiting for you."

Roran slung the pack over his back and embraced Garrow. "I'll come back as soon as I can," he said.

"Good!" Garrow replied. "But go now. Don't worry about us."

They reluctantly released each other. Eragon and Roran stepped out of the house, then turned and waved to Garrow. Garrow raised his bony hand, his expression solemn, and watched them slowly set off down the road. Only after a long while did he close the door. The sound of it shutting carried through the lonely morning, and Roran suddenly stopped.

Eragon looked back over the land behind them, his gaze lingering on that solitary house. It looked ready to collapse, pitifully small. A wisp of smoke drifted from its roof, the only sign of human life on that farm buried beneath ice and snow.

"That is our whole world," Roran said sadly.

Eragon shivered, feeling slightly impatient. "And it is a good one," he said softly. Roran nodded, then raised his chest and stepped toward his new life. As they walked down the hill, home gradually vanished behind them.

They reached Carvahall early, but the blacksmith's doors were already wide open, and the warmth inside was wonderfully comforting. Baldor was slowly working two great bellows. The bellows fed a stone forge blazing with charcoal. Before it stood a black anvil and an iron-banded barrel filled with brine. A row of short pegs had been driven into the wall at shoulder height, displaying a dazzling array of objects: huge tongs, pliers, hammers of every shape and weight, chisels, angle irons, drills, fine files, coarse files, strips of metal, iron bars, steel rods awaiting forging, pincers, large shears, picks, and shovels. Horst and Dempton stood beside a long table.

Dempton came over, a broad smile blooming beneath his striking red beard. "Roran! I'm glad you came. Ready?"

Roran lifted his pack. "Yes. Are we leaving soon?"

"I still have a few matters to take care of, but we'll leave within the hour." Stroking his beard, Dempton turned toward Eragon. Eragon shifted his feet. "You must be Eragon. I'd have liked to offer you work as well, but the only opening went to Roran. Maybe in a year or two, eh?"

Eragon forced a smile and shook his head. This man was very friendly. Under other circumstances, Eragon might have liked him, but now he only bitterly wished that the miller had never come to Carvahall. Dempton looked slightly displeased, said, "All right, very well," then returned his attention to Roran and began explaining the mill's daily work.

"The goods are ready," Horst interjected, pointing to several bundles on the table. "You can take them whenever you're ready." They shook hands, and Horst left the forge, waving for Eragon to come over.

Curious, Eragon followed him outside and saw the blacksmith standing in the street with his arms folded. Eragon jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the miller. "What do you think of him?"

"He's a good man," Horst said in his booming voice. "He'll treat Roran well." He seemed lost in thought, absentmindedly brushing metal filings from his apron. After a moment, he set a large hand on Eragon's shoulder. "Lad, do you remember your quarrel with Sloan?"

"If you mean the matter of paying back the money for meat, I haven't forgotten."

"No, I believe you, lad. What I want to ask is, do you still have that blue stone?"

Eragon's heart began pounding. Why did he want to know? Maybe someone had seen Saphira! He tried desperately not to look alarmed. "I still have it. Why do you ask?"

"When you get home, throw it away as soon as you can." Horst cut off Eragon's cry before it could escape. "Yesterday, two men came here—two strange men in black, wearing swords. Just one look at them made gooseflesh crawl all over me. Last night they began asking whether anyone had found a stone like that. They're doing it again today." Eragon turned pale as he listened. "Anyone with sense said nothing. They know what kind of thing brings trouble, but I know there are a few people who will certainly talk..."

Eragon was filled with terror. The people who had sent the stone into the Spine had now come looking for it—or perhaps the Empire had learned of Saphira. He did not know which was worse. Think! Think! The egg no longer existed; they could not find it. But if they knew what it was, then they would understand exactly what had happened... Saphira would be in great danger! He did his best to appear relaxed. "Thank you for telling me. Do you know where they are?" His voice scarcely trembled at all, and he was almost proud of himself.

"I warned you because I thought you needed to meet them? Leave Carvahall. Go home, quickly!"

"All right," Eragon said, trying to reassure the blacksmith. "If you think I should."

"I do." Horst's face relaxed slightly. "Maybe I'm worrying over nothing, but those two men give me a bad feeling. You'd do best to stay home until they leave. I'll do what I can to keep them away from your farm, though that may not do much good."

Eragon looked at him gratefully, wishing he could tell him about Saphira. "I'm leaving," he said, then hurried back to Roran, gripped his cousin's arm tightly, and said goodbye.

"You're not staying a while longer?" Roran asked in surprise.

For some reason, the question struck him as funny, and Eragon nearly laughed. "I have nothing to do here, and I don't want to stand around waiting for you to leave."

"Well," Roran said hesitantly, "we may not see each other for months."

"I'm sure it won't be that long," Eragon said hastily. "Take care of yourself. Come back soon." He embraced Roran, then left. Horst still stood in the street. As Eragon headed out of the village, he knew the blacksmith was watching him from behind. The moment he passed from Horst's sight, he hunched down behind a house and slipped back into Carvahall.

Eragon kept to the shadows, searching along the street and listening carefully to every sound. Suddenly he remembered that his crossbow was still hanging in his room. How he wished he had it now. He made his way through Carvahall, avoiding everyone's attention, and at last heard a hissing sound near a house. Though his senses were sharp, he had to concentrate intensely to make out the words.

"When was this?" The voice was slick and oily, like glass soaked in grease, as if it were writhing through the air. An eerie hiss coiled around each syllable, making Eragon's scalp crawl.

"About three months ago," another person answered. Eragon recognized Sloan's voice.

Damn him, he told them... Eragon decided that the next time he saw Sloan, he would give him a fistful of blows.

A third person spoke. His voice was damp and low, bringing to mind slowly spreading rot, filthy, sickening mold, and all things best avoided. "Are you certain? We would very much dislike it if you were mistaken. If that were so, it would be extremely... unpleasant." Eragon knew only too well what they would do. Who but people from the Empire would dare threaten others like this? Perhaps no one—but whoever had been capable of sending out that egg must also have feared nothing.

"Yes, I swear it. He had it in his hands then. I'm not lying. A lot of people know about this. Ask them." Sloan's voice trembled. He said something else, but Eragon could not hear it.

"They... were rather uncooperative." There was mockery in the voice. After a brief pause, it continued, "Your information has been useful. We will not forget you." Eragon believed that.

Sloan muttered something, then Eragon heard someone stride quickly out. Peering around the corner, he saw two tall men standing in the road, both wearing long black cloaks, raised high at the thighs by the swords beneath. Silver-threaded emblems of intricate, mysterious design were pinned to their chests. Their faces were hidden in the deep shadows of their hoods, and their hands were covered by gloves. They stooped oddly, as if their garments were stuffed full of padding.

Eragon shifted slightly, hoping to see more clearly. Suddenly, one of the men in black froze and muttered something to his companion in a strange language. Both whirled around at once, bending low into attacking stances. Eragon suddenly could not breathe. Vast terror seized him, and he stared fixedly at their unseen faces. A suffocating force controlled his will, leaving him unable to move. Eragon poured every ounce of strength into trying to break free, screaming inside himself: Run! His legs began to shake, but he could not take a step. The men in black moved swiftly toward him, their footsteps soundless, as though they were swimming over the ground. He knew they could see his face now. Their hands rested on their sword hilts as they approached the corner...

"Eragon!" He sprang at the cry. The two men in black stopped as well, frozen in place, hissing in their throats. Brom was running toward him, hatless and carrying his staff, unable to see the men in black from where he stood. Eragon tried to cry out a warning, but his tongue and arms would not obey him. "Eragon!" Brom called again. The men in black gave Eragon one last look, then slipped away and vanished between the houses.

Eragon collapsed to the ground, trembling violently. Great beads of sweat ran down his forehead, and his palms were slick. The old man extended a hand, and his strong arm hauled Eragon up from the ground. "You look ill. Are you all right?"

Eragon swallowed and nodded silently. His eyes roamed everywhere, searching for anything unusual. "I was suddenly dizzy... It's passed now. Strange—I don't know why it happened."

"You'll be all right," Brom said, "but perhaps you should go home first."

Yes, I have to go home! Before they get there. "I think you're right. Maybe I am sick."

"Then home is the best place for you. It is a long way, but I'm sure you'll feel better once you get there." Eragon obediently let Brom grasp his hand and lead him away at a rapid pace. They passed house after house, Brom's staff creaking as it struck the snow.

"What were you looking for me for?"

Brom shrugged. "Only curiosity. I heard you had come into the village, and I wanted to know if you'd remembered that merchant's name."

Merchant? What was he talking about? Eragon blinked blankly. His bewildered expression was caught in full by Brom's probing eyes. "No," he said quickly, trying to conceal it. "I still can't remember."

Brom sighed heavily, as if some doubt in his heart had been confirmed. He rubbed his hooked nose. "Well... when you do remember, tell me. I have a great interest in this merchant who claims to know so much about dragons." Eragon was too unsettled to do more than nod. They said nothing further until they reached the road. Brom said, "Go home quickly. I don't think lingering on the road is a good idea." He held out a large, knuckled hand.

Eragon shook it. But as he pulled away, his glove was snagged and pulled off, though something was hidden in Brom's palm. The old man picked up the glove and said apologetically, "Look at me, all thumbs." He handed it over. Just as Eragon reached for it, Brom's powerful fingers seized his wrist and twisted it sharply. Eragon's palm immediately faced upward, revealing the silver mark. Brom's eyes gleamed as he allowed Eragon to pull back and stuff his hand into the glove.

"Goodbye." Eragon turned and hurried away, unease churning within him. Behind him came the sound of Brom's cheerful whistling.

Eragon's mind whirled as he ran toward home, as fast as he could, not daring to stop even when he was panting like an ox. As he raced downhill along the freezing road, he called to Saphira in his mind. But she was too far away; he could not reach her. He kept trying to figure out how to tell Garrow. There was no other choice now. He could only reveal Saphira.

At last, home came into view. He gulped down air, his heart pounding as if it would leap from his chest. Garrow stood before the barn, and the horses were outside as well. Yet now Eragon hesitated again. Did he need to tell him now? He would not believe it unless Saphira was right there before him—better to find her first. He slipped around the farmstead and entered the forest. Saphira! he called silently.

I am coming. A weak reply reached him. He sensed her wariness within those words. Though he soon heard the sound of Saphira's wings beating through the air, he still waited with restless anxiety. She landed in a cloud of dust and snow, asking, What happened?

He held her shoulders, first closing his eyes to steady himself, then quickly told her everything that had happened. When he mentioned the two men in black, Saphira recoiled in fear and reared up with a deafening roar, her tail lashing down over Eragon's head. Startled, he leaped backward. Saphira smashed apart a heap of snow, scattering powder everywhere, and Eragon had to bend over and shield his face. She radiated a terrifying presence, murderous and yet utterly panic-stricken. Fire! Enemies! Death! Murderers!

What is wrong? Eragon sent the thought with all his strength, but a thick iron wall surrounded her mind, blocking her thoughts from him. She let out another earth-shaking roar, her claws tearing at the ground and ripping open the frozen earth. Don't do this! Garrow will hear!

Oaths broken, lives slaughtered, dragon eggs shattered! Blood flooding the ground, murderers!

In his panic, Eragon flung Saphira's emotions from his own mind and fixed his eyes on her tail. The instant it swept past him, he rushed to her side, seized the ivory-like spikes on her back, and with a powerful heave leaped into the hollow where her neck met her shoulders. Saphira reared again, but Eragon held on tightly and shouted, "Enough, Saphira!" Her mad, tidal thoughts vanished without a trace. His hands stroked her scales again and again. "Everything will be all right." Saphira crouched, spread her wings, held herself aloft for a moment, then beat them fiercely and surged from the ground, soaring into the sky.

Eragon gave a shrill cry of terror. The ground rushed away beneath him, and in the blink of an eye they had swept above the treetops. The wind slammed into his face, making it impossible to breathe. Saphira ignored his fear, banking through the air toward the Spine. The farmstead and the Anora River flashed beneath them. Eragon's stomach knotted as he clung tightly around Saphira's neck, not daring to take his eyes off the scales directly before his nose. Saphira continued climbing, and he fought desperately not to vomit. Only when she finally began flying level did he dare look around.

The temperature was brutally cold, and frost clung to his eyelashes. They arrived much sooner than Eragon had expected. From the air, the jagged, towering peaks looked like enormous sharp fangs waiting to tear them into strips of flesh. Saphira's flight was wildly erratic, and Eragon finally turned his head aside and vomited. He wiped his lips and buried his face in her neck, bile bitter in his mouth.

We have to go home, he pleaded. Those two monsters are heading for the farmstead. We have to warn Garrow. Turn back! There was no answer. He tried to probe her will, but a seething flood of terror and rage blocked him. Eragon decided he would make her turn back, and so he slowly pressed against the barrier of her mind, seeking its weak places and trying to weaken where it was strongest. He used every method he knew, hoping she would hear him, but nothing worked.

Soon mountains surrounded them, rising into a vast white wall studded with granite cliffs. Glaciers hung between the peaks like frozen blue rivers. Long valleys and ravines spread open beneath them, while birds flying low shrieked in terror at the sight of Saphira. On the sheer cliffs, a herd of goats ran and leaped with nimble ease.

The wind raised by Saphira's wings lashed Eragon's face like whips. Whenever she turned her neck, he was flung from one side to the other. She seemed tireless, and he worried that she would keep flying all night. At last, as night fell, she finally angled downward.

Looking ahead, Eragon saw that they were landing in a small clearing in some mountain valley. Saphira spiraled down, gliding gently over the treetops. Just before touching down, she beat her wings backward, swelling them with air. Her foreclaws struck the ground first, powerful muscles bunching to absorb the impact. Once all four feet were down, she gave a small forward leap to keep her balance. Eragon rolled off before she could even fold her wings.

The moment his feet touched the ground, his knees buckled and he pitched headfirst into the snow. Piercing agony shot through his legs, and tears flooded his eyes as he gasped for breath. His muscles cramped and spasmed violently from having been tense for so long. He rolled over, trembling all over, and lay on his back, stretching his limbs as much as possible. Then he forced himself to look down and saw two large dark stains on the inner thighs of his wool trousers, damp to the touch. His heart tightened. Grimacing, he pulled off his pants to inspect them. The inner sides of his thighs had been rubbed raw, bloody and torn, the skin scraped away against Saphira's hard scales until the wounds were a hideous mess. He touched them gingerly, then jerked back as though shocked. The cold bit through the air around him. He pulled up his trousers, and the cloth rubbing against the tender wounds made him cry out. He tried to rise, but his legs could not support him at all.

Night deepened, and the mountains in the shadows looked strange and unfamiliar. In the heart of winter, I'm stranded in the Spine, with no idea where I am, beside a mad dragon. I can't walk, I can't find shelter. Night has fallen, and I can only return to the farm tomorrow. The only way back is flying, but I cannot possibly endure that again. He drew a deep breath. Oh, how I wish Saphira could breathe fire! Turning his head, he saw her curled on the ground nearby. He reached out to touch her body and found that she was trembling. The barrier shielding Saphira's mind had vanished, and her fear burned through Eragon all at once. He struggled to suppress the feeling and sent her images of beautiful things, soothing her slowly. Why did those two men in black frighten you so badly?

Murderers! she hissed.

Garrow is in grave danger, and you dragged me here for no reason! Can't you protect me? Enraged, she opened her jaws and growled low. Oh, but if you think you can, why did you run?

Death is poison.

He propped himself on one elbow, supporting his head, and fought down his frustration. Saphira, look where we've run to! The sun has set, and your hard armor has rubbed my legs raw as scaled fish! Is this what you wanted?

No.

Then why did you do this? he pressed. In their mental connection, he felt her regret, but it was regret for his injuries, not for her own actions. Her gaze turned away, and she refused to answer. The frozen weather numbed Eragon's legs. Though that eased the pain, he knew his situation was dire. He changed the subject. I'm going to freeze to death unless you can find me somewhere warm to hide. Even a pile of pine needles or branches would do.

She seemed relieved that he had stopped questioning her. There is no need. I can circle around you and cover you with my wings—my inner fire can keep out the cold.

Eragon leaned back and let his head fall heavily onto the ground. Fine, but first clear the snow off the ground. It'll be more comfortable. Saphira raised her tail in answer. With one heavy blow, she scattered a mound of snow into nothing. She swept it a few more times, clearing away the last inches of harder old snow. Eragon looked at the bare earth, filled with annoyance. I can't walk. You'll have to help me. Her head, larger than his torso, swung before him and lowered beside him. He stared into her enormous sapphire-blue eyes and grasped one ivory spike on her neck. She raised her head and gently dragged him toward the cleared patch. Easy, easy. His body scraped across a rock, and stars burst before his eyes, but he endured. After he let go, Saphira lay on her side, exposing her warm belly. He curled against the smooth scales of her underside, and her left wing spread over him, wrapping him in blackness, making a living tent. Almost at once, every trace of cold vanished.

He pulled one hand free from his sleeve and tucked it inside his coat, then wound the empty sleeve around his neck. Only then did he realize how ravenous he was, though even that could not distract him from his worries. Could he return to the farmstead before the men in black? If he could not, what would happen? Even if I force myself onto Saphira again, it will be at least afternoon before I reach home. The men in black may already be there. He closed his eyes and felt a tear slide down his cheek. What have I done?

The next morning, Eragon opened his eyes and thought the sky had fallen. A vast blue expanse poured down before him to the ground. Half asleep, he tentatively reached out and touched what felt like a membrane, then stared for a long while before realizing what he was seeing. He lowered his head slightly and looked at the scaled dragon belly beneath him, then slowly stretched his legs out of his curled, fetal position. The armor near his ears gave off soft clinking sounds. The pain in his legs was less than yesterday, but at the thought of walking, he still shrank back. A burning hunger reminded him of the supper he had missed, and he tried to rouse himself, weakly patting Saphira's body. "Hey, wake up!" he shouted.

She shifted, raising her wing, and sunlight immediately poured over him. The snow reflected it in a dazzling blaze, and Eragon hurriedly squinted. Saphira stretched and yawned beside him like a cat, two rows of white teeth gleaming. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Eragon began to identify where he was. Unfamiliar, magnificent mountains surrounded them, casting deep shadows across the clearing. A small path crossed the snow at one edge of the clearing and disappeared into dense forest. The burbling of a stream came from among the trees.

Groaning, he staggered to his feet and limped beneath a tree, grabbing a branch and hanging all his weight from it. The branch held for a moment, then broke with a tremendous crack. He stripped away the smaller twigs, braced one end beneath his arm, and planted the other firmly on the ground. With this makeshift crutch, he limped to the frozen stream, broke the hard crust of ice, and scooped up the clear, biting water below. After drinking his fill, he returned to the clearing. As he stepped out from the trees, Eragon finally recognized the mountain before him and the location of the clearing.

This was where the dragon egg that hatched Saphira had suddenly appeared amid an earth-shaking explosion. Eragon fell backward against a large tree. There could be no mistake; he recognized the gray, bare trees now. They had lost all their pine needles in that explosion. How could Saphira have known this place? She had still been inside the egg then. She must have found it through my memories. He shook his head silently, overwhelmed with shock.

Saphira waited patiently for him. Will you take me home? he asked. Her head lifted high. I know you don't want to, but we must. We are both responsible for Garrow. He raised me, and through me, he cared for you as well. Would you abandon that responsibility? If we don't go back, what will people say—that we hid like turtles pulling their heads into their shells and left our uncle in mortal danger? I can already hear the tale of the Rider and his cowardly dragon! If bloodshed awaits us, then let us face it, not flee from it. You are a dragon! Even ghosts should flee before you at the very sight of you! Yet you cower in the mountains like a rabbit frightened out of its soul!

Eragon had intended to provoke her, and he succeeded. An enormous dragon head thrust before his nose, only inches away. A low growl like distant thunder rolled from her throat, her terrible teeth gleamed like knives and swords, her eyes blazed, and black smoke drifted from her nostrils. Eragon's heart quaked, and he could only hope he had not gone too far. Saphira's thoughts stormed into his mind, blazing with fury. Blood debts must be repaid in blood. I will fight. We are driven by wyrds—fate. But do not test me again! I will carry you back out of duty, though it is truly a foolish thing to do.

"Foolish or not," he said aloud to the sky, "we have no choice—we must go." He tore his shirt in two and stuffed the pieces into each trouser leg, then carefully settled onto Saphira's back and clung tightly to her neck. This time, he told her, fly lower and faster. Time is everything.

Hold tight, she warned, then beat her wings and flew. They traveled steadily above the forest, almost skimming the treetops. Eragon's stomach knotted again, but this time he was glad it was empty.

Faster. Faster, he urged again and again. Saphira said nothing, but her wings beat more rapidly. Eragon squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders. He had hoped the shirt padding would offer some protection, yet agony still shot through his legs with every movement Saphira made. Soon, warm streams of blood ran down his calves. Concern flowed from Saphira, and she flew faster still, her wings beating at full strength. The earth raced beneath them as if it were rushing backward. Eragon thought that to anyone on the ground, they would be no more than a dot.

Just after noon, Palancar Valley came into sight. Clouds covered the southern end of the valley, blocking Eragon's view, while Carvahall lay to the north. Saphira glided downward and let Eragon search for the farmstead. At last he saw it, and panic surged through him. Flames leaped across the farmstead, and a pillar of smoke shot into the sky.

Saphira! He pointed. Take me there, quickly!

She folded her wings tight against her body and plunged straight down at breathtaking speed, then altered her course slightly and headed toward the forest. Eragon's shout broke through the howl of the wind. "Land in the fields!" He clung even more tightly around Saphira. Only when they were a hundred feet above the ground did she spread her wings and beat powerfully downward several times, landing so heavily that Eragon's grip loosened. He rolled off, then staggered upright, gasping again and again.

The house had been blasted into shattered ruins. The wood of its walls and roof had been broken apart as if smashed to dust by a giant hammer and scattered far away. Blackened cobblestones lay everywhere, and a few twisted pieces of metal were all that remained of the stove. Shards of pottery and broken red bricks from the chimney had punched thousands of tiny holes into the snow. Smoke billowed from the barn, thick, black, and foul, while the fire still burned fiercely. The livestock were gone, either slaughtered or frightened into fleeing.

"Uncle!" Eragon rushed into the ruins, searching for Garrow through the unrecognizable rooms, but there was no trace of him. "Uncle!" Eragon shouted again. Saphira circled the house once, then came to his side.

Tragedy has struck, she said.

"If you hadn't taken me away, this would never have happened!"

If we had stayed here, you would not be alive now.

"Look at all this!" Grief and fury flooded him. "We could have warned Garrow! It was you—you kept him from escaping in time!" He punched a post so hard that the skin over his knuckles split, blood pouring out. He stumbled from the house to the road and bent over to inspect the tracks in the snow. Several kinds of footprints lay before him, but his vision was blurred and he could not see them clearly. Am I going blind? he wondered. Raising a trembling hand, he touched his face and found it wet.

A shadow fell over him as Saphira flew low above his head. Do not grieve. Perhaps it is not so bad. He looked up at her, seeking a glimmer of hope. Look at these tracks. I can only see the footprints of two people. Garrow may not have been taken by them.

He studied the disturbed snow closely. The tracks dimly showed two people in leather boots walking toward the house, then those same two people turning around and leaving. Whoever they were, they carried the same weight when they came as when they left. You are right. Garrow must still be here! He sprang up and raced toward the house.

I will search around the house and through the woods, Saphira said.

Eragon rushed into the kitchen ruins and dug frantically through the rubble. Debris that normally would have been impossible to lift now seemed to move aside of its own accord. A cupboard, nearly intact, took him a little time, but then he lifted it and flung it away. He bent to move a board when he suddenly heard movement behind him. He spun around at once, every sense alert.

A hand protruded from beneath a collapsed section of roof, waving weakly. Eragon cried out and lunged forward, grabbing it. "Uncle, can you hear me?" There was no response. Eragon lifted away a piece of wood. Splinters stabbed his hands, but he paid no attention. Soon, an arm and shoulder were exposed, but a heavy beam lay across his path. He strained with all his strength, thrusting against it with his shoulder, but it did not budge. "Saphira! Help me!"

She came at once, moving through the ruined walls, broken wood cracking beneath her feet. Without speaking, she carefully stepped past him, pressed herself against the beam, sank her claws into the shattered floor, and tensed every muscle in her body. With a shriek of wood, the beam rose. Eragon immediately crawled beneath it and found Garrow lying facedown, his clothes torn into rags. Eragon dragged him from the wreckage. Once they were safely clear, Saphira released the beam and let it crash down.

Eragon dragged Garrow from the ruined house and gently laid him on an open patch of ground. Panic-stricken, he reached out timidly and touched his uncle. Garrow's skin was gray and lifeless, dried as if every drop of water had been baked from him. His lips were split, and a long wound crossed his cheekbone. But those were not the worst of it. Deep burns covered his body, a ghastly ruin, turned waxy white and oozing clear fluid. His entire body gave off a dreadful, nauseating stench—like rotting fruit. He breathed rapidly, every breath a rattling death sound.

Murderers, Saphira hissed.

Don't say that. He may still be saved! We have to take him to Gertrude, but I can't carry him to Carvahall.

Saphira sent Eragon an image: herself flying through the sky, Garrow hanging from her neck.

Can you carry us both?

If I cannot, I must.

Eragon dug a plank from the wreckage, found some leather straps, and had Saphira use her claws to make holes at each corner. Then he threaded the straps through them and hung the board beneath Saphira's forelegs. He inspected it carefully, making sure the knots were tight enough, then placed Garrow on the board and secured him firmly. Just then, a small scrap of black cloth fell from his uncle's hand. It matched the material worn by the men in black. Filled with hatred, Eragon put it safely into his pocket and climbed onto Saphira. Unending pain spread through his body, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Go!

Saphira's hind legs drove hard against the earth, lifting her three feet into the air. Her wings beat frantically, and she rose a little higher, slowly. Every muscle strained, her joints cracking as she fought desperately against the pull of the earth. Her first struggle seemed terribly long and difficult, yet accomplished nothing. Then she gathered herself and surged upward, another foot, and finally rose above the forest. Eragon immediately said, Follow the road. There will be enough room to land that way.

People will see me.

That does not matter now! She did not argue, but turned and followed the road toward Carvahall. Garrow swung violently beneath her, those fragile straps his only protection.

Saphira could barely bear the weight and flew very slowly. Before long, she could no longer hold up her head, and foam gathered around her mouth. She tried to continue, but at last, a league from Carvahall, she folded her wings and landed on the road.

Snow flew everywhere as her hind legs struck the ground. Eragon fell from her back and landed heavily on one side, avoiding his injured legs. He struggled upright and untied the straps from Saphira's legs, her harsh breathing thunderous in his ears. Find somewhere safe to rest, he said. I do not know how long I will be gone, so you will have to take care of yourself for a while.

I will wait for you, she said.

He gritted his teeth and began dragging Garrow along the road. The first few steps filled him with pain. "No, I can't do it!" He stretched his neck and cried out toward the sky, then took several more steps. Next he lowered his head, grunting with effort, staring at the ground between his feet as he forced himself onward. This was a war, and he had to defeat his disobedient body—he refused to accept defeat. The seconds crawled past, unbearably long, and every yard he covered was as difficult as crossing mountains and rivers. In despair, he began to wonder whether Carvahall still existed, whether the two men in black had destroyed it too. After an unknown length of time, dizzy with exhaustion, he heard someone calling him and raised his head.

Brom ran toward him—his eyes wide, his hair disheveled, dark-red blood clotted on one side of his head. He waved his arms desperately, then threw down his staff, grabbed Eragon's shoulders, and shouted something. Eragon blinked, his awareness scattered, utterly unable to understand. Suddenly, the ground seemed to rush at him. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and then he fell into endless darkness.

Dreams rose and died within Eragon's mind. He saw a group of people in fine clothes on spirited horses, riding toward a solitary river. Many held spears, their hair gleaming silver. A ship waited silently for them, beautiful and strange in shape, radiant beneath bright moonlight. The people boarded slowly. Two among them were taller than the rest and walked arm in arm. Their faces were hidden in the shadows of their cloaks, but one was clearly a woman. They stepped onto the deck and looked back at the shore. Only one man had not boarded. He stood alone on the pebble beach, turned away, and gave a cry of boundless sorrow. The sound faded as the ship traveled downriver, moving without wind or oars, drifting farther and farther between the empty wildernesses on either bank. The vision dimmed, and in the instant before it vanished, Eragon saw two dragons circling and soaring high above.

Eragon first heard a creaking sound near his ear: once in front, then again behind. The constant sound made him open his eyes, and the ceiling of a thatched hut came into view. A rough blanket covered him. He lay naked, his leg wounds bandaged, and clean strips of cloth wrapped around his knuckles.

He was in a one-room hut. A mortar and pestle stood on a table, alongside several bowls and plants. Rows of dried herbs hung on the walls, filling the air with a rich fragrance of the fields. Fire flickered in the hearth. A short, plump woman sat in a wicker rocking chair nearby—Gertrude, the village healer. Her eyes were shut, her head resting lazily against the chair back. A pair of knitting needles and a ball of wool lay on her lap.

Though Eragon greatly did not want to, he forced himself to sit up in bed. It cleared his mind somewhat. He recalled the events of the past two days. The first thing he thought of was Garrow, then Saphira. I hope she is hidden somewhere safe. He tried to contact her, but failed. Wherever she was, she must have gone far from Carvahall. Luckily Brom brought me here. I wonder what happened to him? He was bleeding so badly.

Gertrude started awake and opened bright, shining eyes. "Oh," she said, "you're awake. Good!" Her voice was rich and warm. "How do you feel?"

"Much better. Where is Garrow?"

Gertrude moved her chair closer to the bed. "At Horst's house. There wasn't room for both of you here. Let me tell you, this has kept me off my feet, running back and forth to look after you both."

Eragon restrained his anxiety and asked, "How is he?"

She hesitated for a long while, looking at her hands without answering. "Not well. His fever will not break, and his wounds will not heal."

"I want to see him." He immediately tried to get out of bed.

"Eat first," she said firmly, pushing him back down. "I didn't spend all that time caring for you just so you could hurt yourself again after getting better. Half the skin on your legs was rubbed away, and your fever only broke last night. Do not worry about Garrow. He is strong. He will recover." Gertrude hung a pot over the fire and began chopping parsnip roots for soup.

"How long have I been here?"

"Two full days."

Two days! That meant four mornings had passed since he had last eaten supper! The thought alone made Eragon feel weak. Saphira had been alone all that time. He could only hope she was safe.

"The whole village wants to know what happened. They sent people to your farmstead and found it completely destroyed." Eragon nodded; he had expected as much. "The barn burned down... Is that how Garrow was hurt?"

"I... I don't know," Eragon said. "I wasn't there when it happened."

"Oh, never mind. I'm sure everything will work itself out." While the soup simmered over the fire, Gertrude resumed her knitting. "You have a scar on your palm."

He instinctively clenched his hand. "Yes."

"How did you get it?"

Several possible answers rushed through his mind. He chose the simplest. "I've had it as long as I can remember. I never asked Garrow where it came from."

"Hmm..." They remained silent until the soup began to boil. Gertrude ladled it into a bowl and handed it to Eragon with a spoon. He accepted it gratefully, tasted it carefully, and found it delicious.

When he had finished, he asked, "Can I see Garrow now?"

Gertrude sighed. "You really are stubborn, aren't you? Fine. If you insist on going, I won't stop you. Get dressed and we'll go."

She turned away as Eragon struggled into his trousers, shuddering whenever he touched a wound, then pulled on his shirt. Gertrude helped him to his feet. His legs were still weak, but they no longer tormented him with unbearable pain.

"Walk a few steps," she ordered, then concluded dryly, "At least you won't have to crawl there."

Outside, the cold wind howled, blowing smoke from the nearby houses straight into their faces. Dark clouds cut off the Spine, hanging over the valley. Before long, a blizzard swallowed the village and blanketed the hills at the mountain's feet. Leaning heavily on Gertrude, Eragon made his way into Carvahall.

Horst had built his two-story home atop a small rise, where the view of the mountains stretched out in full. He had poured every ounce of his skill into the house. A railed balcony extended before the long second-floor windows, tucked beneath a slate-tiled roof. Every drain spout had been carved into an animal's head, while every window frame and doorframe bore carvings of pythons, stags, ravens, and twisting grapevines.

Horst's wife, Elain, opened the door. She was a petite, slender woman with delicate features, silky golden hair gathered into a round bun at the back of her head. Her clothes were neat and modest, her manner graceful. "Come in," she said softly. They crossed the threshold into a bright room with a spiral staircase and handrail, its four walls painted honey yellow. Elain gave Eragon a sorrowful smile, then said to Gertrude, "I was just about to send someone for you. He's doing poorly. You should see him at once."

"Elain, Eragon needs help getting up the stairs," Gertrude said, hurrying past them.

"It's all right. I can do it myself."

"Are you sure?" Elain asked. He nodded, though she looked deeply doubtful. "Well... come find me in the kitchen when you're done. There are fresh-baked cakes. You'll like them." The moment she turned away, Eragon leaned against the wall, instantly feeling much better. Then he began climbing the stairs, every step a fresh ordeal of pain. At last he reached the top. Rooms lined both sides of a long corridor, and the door to the last one stood slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, he limped toward it.

Katrina stood by the fireplace, boiling strips of cloth. She lifted her face toward the ceiling in a silent sigh, then lowered her head and returned to her work. Beside her, Gertrude chopped herbs to make a salve, while a bucket of melting snow sat at her feet.

Garrow lay on a bed piled thick with blankets, sweat beading his forehead, his eyes rolling wildly beneath tightly shut lids. His face was as hollow as a corpse's. Apart from his faint, shallow breathing, he did not move at all. To Eragon, none of it seemed real. He gently touched his uncle's forehead; it was searing hot. Anxiously, he pulled back part of the blanket and saw that Garrow's many wounds had been bound with strips of cloth. Where the bandages were being changed, the wounds lay exposed, showing no sign of healing. Eragon raised helpless eyes to Gertrude. "Can't you do something?"

She dipped a cloth into the bucket of icy water, then laid it across Garrow's forehead. "I've tried everything—oils, poultices, medicinal wine—but none of it has worked. If the wounds could heal, he would be much better. Still, there is hope. He is brave, and strong."

Eragon walked to a corner and slowly collapsed onto the floor. Things were not supposed to be like this! His thoughts then sank into blankness. Staring vacantly at Garrow's bed, he saw nothing else. After a while, he noticed Katrina kneeling beside him. She wrapped an arm around him, but he did not react. Helplessly, she had no choice but to walk away.

Later, the door opened and Horst came in. He spoke quietly with Gertrude for a few moments, then approached Eragon. "Come. You need to leave this room." Before Eragon could protest, Horst hauled him off the floor and led him out.

"I want to stay here," he protested.

"You need rest and fresh air. Don't worry. You can come back soon," Horst soothed.

Reluctantly, Eragon let the smith help him down the stairs and into the kitchen. The rich aromas of six or seven dishes filled the air. Albriech and Baldor were there as well, while their mother made bread and spoke with them. The brothers fell silent the instant they saw Eragon, but the fragments he had overheard were enough for him to know they had been talking about Garrow.

"Come sit down." Horst pulled out a chair.

It was exactly what Eragon wanted. He sat down. "Thank you." His hands trembled lightly, so he tucked them between his knees. A plate heaped with food was set before him.

"You don't have to eat," Elain said. "Eat whenever you feel like it." Then she went back to preparing the meal. Eragon picked up his fork, but could barely swallow a bite.

"How do you feel?" Horst asked.

"Terrible."

The smith paused, then said, "I know this isn't the time, but we need to know... what exactly happened?"

"I can't remember clearly either."

"Eragon," Horst said, leaning forward, "I was one of the people who went to your farm. Your house hadn't merely collapsed—it had been torn to pieces. And there were footprints around it, tracks from some enormous beast unlike anything I've ever heard of or seen. Others saw them too. If there are truly ghosts or monsters roaming nearby, we need to get to the bottom of it. You are the only one who can tell us the truth."

Eragon knew he had to make up a story. "I left Carvahall..." He counted the days. "Four days ago. There were... men in black asking around the village about a stone—the very one I found." He gestured at Horst. "You told me about them, so I hurried home." All eyes gathered on his face. He licked his lips. "That night, everything was... was peaceful. The next morning, after I finished my work, I went into the forest. Not long afterward, I heard an explosion, and black smoke rose above the treetops. I ran home as fast as I could, but the killers had already fled. I dug through the ruins... and found Garrow."

"So you put him on a plank and dragged him all the way here?" Albriech asked.

"Yes," Eragon said. "But before I left, I checked the path leading to the main road. There were two kinds of footprints on it, both belonging to men." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of black cloth. "Garrow was clutching this in his hand. I think it came from the black-clothed men's clothes."

"That's right." Horst looked both grief-stricken and troubled. "Then what happened to your leg? How did you get hurt?"

"I don't know." Eragon shook his head. "I think I did it while digging Garrow out of the ruins, but I didn't feel anything at the time—not until blood started running down my leg."

"That's terrible," Elain blurted out.

"We have to catch those two," Albriech said hotly. "We can't just let them get away with this! Give us two fast horses, and we can catch up tomorrow and bring them back!"

"Wipe that foolish idea out of your head," Horst said. "They could lift you like a baby and throw you into a tree. Have you forgotten what they did to that house? We cannot afford to provoke people like them. Besides, they have what they wanted now." He looked at Eragon. "They did take the stone, didn't they?"

"It isn't in the house anymore."

"Now that they've found it, there's no reason for them to come back here." He gave Eragon a sharp look. "You still haven't explained those strange footprints. Do you know where they came from?"

Eragon shook his head. "I didn't see those footprints."

Baldor suddenly cut in. "I don't like any of this. It sounds too much like witchcraft. What sort of people are they? Ghosts? Why did they want that stone? If they didn't use evil magic, how could they have destroyed the house like that? Maybe you're right, Father—they only wanted the stone. But I think they'll surely return like a dead branch sprouting again."

His words brought silence.

Eragon had the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something, though he could not think what it was. Then it struck him, and his heart sank straight down. He voiced his fear. "Roran doesn't know about this, does he?" How could I have forgotten him?

Horst shook his head. "Soon after you left that day, he and Dempton left too. Unless they ran into trouble on the road, he should have reached Therinsford several days ago. We wanted to send someone with word, but yesterday and the day before were simply too cold."

"We were about to leave when you woke up."

Horst stroked his beard. "Come on, you two. I'll help you saddle the horses."

"I'll tell him slowly," Baldor promised Eragon. Then he followed Horst and Albriech out of the kitchen.

Eragon remained seated at the table. His eyes fixed on a knot in the wood, and he could see every minute detail of it: the twisted, delicate grain; three lines bulging toward one side; a small dark knot in the middle. The knot seemed to contain endless riches. The closer he leaned, the more he discovered. He hoped to find some answer within it, but even if one truly existed, it seemed to be hiding from him.

A faint call broke through his turbulent thoughts, sounding as though someone were shouting outside. Let someone else deal with it. A few minutes later, the sound came again, louder than before. Angrily, he ignored it. Can't they be quiet? Garrow is resting. He looked at Elain, but she seemed not to have heard a thing.

Eragon! The shout nearly knocked him from his chair. He looked up around him nervously, but nothing was amiss. Then he realized the voice had come from inside his mind.

Saphira? he asked urgently.

After a brief silence came the reply: Yes, deaf one.

The tension in his heart slowly eased. Where are you?