Section Three

She sent him an image of a small grove. I tried to find you several times, but I could never reach you.

I was sick... but I'm better now. Why couldn't I feel you before?

After waiting two days and two nights, I was so hungry I couldn't bear it any longer. I had to go out hunting.

Did you catch anything?

A young, strong stag. Its cleverness was enough to deal with predators on the ground, but not those that came from the sky. When I first sank my teeth into it, it struggled violently, trying to escape. But I was stronger. When failure became inevitable, it surrendered itself to death. Did Garrow defeat his fate?

I don't know. He told her everything in detail, then said, It will be a long time before we can go home, if that day ever comes. At least for the next few days, I won't be able to see you. You must keep taking care of yourself.

She was dejected. I'll do as you say, but don't be gone too long.

They reluctantly broke off their contact. He looked out the window and was startled to find that the sun had already sunk in the west. He felt utterly exhausted. Limping, he went to Elain, who was making meat pies. "I'm going back to Gertrude's house to sleep," he said.

After finishing the pie in her hands, she said, "Why not stay here? You'll be closer to your uncle, and Gertrude can sleep in her own bed."

"Is there a room?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course." She wiped her hands. "Come with me. It's been ready for a while." She helped him upstairs and led him to an empty room. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Do you need anything else?" she asked. Eragon shook his head. "Then I'll be downstairs. Call me anytime if you need help." He listened as she descended the stairs, then opened the door and quietly crossed the hall to Garrow's room. Gertrude was knitting rapidly. She gave him a faint smile.

"How is he?" Eragon whispered.

Her voice was hoarse with exhaustion. "Very weak, but his fever has gone down a little, and some of his wounds look better. We still need to keep watching him, but this may be a sign that he'll recover."

The news lifted Eragon's spirits, and he returned to his room. Curled beneath the blankets, he felt as if the darkness around him harbored ill intent, but eventually he fell asleep. In his dreams, the pain in his body and the torment in his mind eased somewhat.

Eragon suddenly sat upright in bed, struggling to breathe. It was dark all around him, and the room was bitterly cold. Gooseflesh ran from his arms to his shoulders. There were still several hours until dawn—the hour when all things lay hidden and still, waiting for the first warmth of sunlight.

His heart pounded. A sense of foreboding seized him tightly, making him feel as if the entire world had been covered by a shroud, with the darkest, deepest corner lying inside his room. Soundlessly, he got out of bed, dressed, and hurried through the hall with his heart ablaze with worry. Garrow's door stood open, and many people had gathered inside. At the sight, terror overwhelmed him.

Garrow lay peacefully on the bed, dressed in clean clothes, his hair neatly combed back. His face was tranquil, as though he were deep in a pleasant dream—if not for the silver amulet hanging around his neck. It was the final gift the living gave the dead.

Katrina stood beside the bed with lowered eyes, her face pale. Eragon heard her murmur, "I once hoped that someday I could call him Father..."

Call him Father. Bitterness filled his heart. A right even I never had. He felt as though every shred of strength had been drained from him, leaving only a scrap of soul. Everything around him seemed hollow and unreal, yet Garrow's face was painfully vivid. Tears streamed down Eragon's face. He stood there, his shoulders shaking violently, but no sound came from him. Mother, aunt, uncle—his family had vanished from his side one by one. He could no longer bear such crushing grief. Beneath its mountain-toppling, sea-overturning weight, he swayed on the verge of collapse. Someone brought him back to his room, speaking words of comfort.

He fell onto the bed, clutching his head as sobs wracked his body. Saphira called to him, but he pushed her away and let grief swallow him whole. He could not accept that Garrow was gone. If that was true, what could he still believe in? This was a cruel, merciless world, where lives were snuffed out like dying candles in the wind. The world left him disillusioned and afraid. He raised his tear-streaked face and shouted at the sky, "Who arranged all this? Come out and face me!" He heard people rush into the room, but above him there was only silence. "He shouldn't have been treated like this!"

Comforting hands stroked him, and he knew Elain had sat beside him. She gently embraced the weeping Eragon. At last, utterly spent in body and soul, he unwillingly sank into a deep sleep.

Eragon woke with heart-piercing grief. Though he squeezed his eyes shut, he still could not stop the tears from flowing. He racked his brains, searching for a thought, or a hope, that could help him remain sane. I can't bear this, he sobbed.

Then don't bear it. Saphira's voice sounded in his mind.

How can I not? Garrow will never come back! One day I'll suffer the same fate. Kinship, family, achievements—all of it will vanish into smoke, leaving not a shred behind! What meaning can anything we do possibly have?

The meaning lies in the journey. Once the effort to change and experience life ends, meaning ceases to exist. Yet the choice is yours. Choose a goal and pursue it tirelessly. That action itself will give you hope and direction.

But what am I supposed to do?

Your only guide lies within your heart. Only its deepest desires can help you.

Saphira let Eragon ponder her words. He carefully examined his feelings and, to his surprise, found that beneath the grief there burned a scorching anger. What do you want me to do... hunt down the men in black?

Yes.

Her frank answer bewildered him. Trembling, he drew a deep breath. Why?

Do you remember what you said in the Spine? How you reminded me of the responsibilities I should bear as a dragon, allowing me to overcome my powerful instincts and return with you? Then you must likewise control yourself. Over the past few days, I have thought long and deeply. I understand what it means to be a dragon and a Dragon Rider: to do what cannot be done, to cast off the fear in one's heart, and accomplish a great deed. This is our destiny, our responsibility to the future.

I don't care what you say. None of that is a reason to leave here! Eragon cried.

There are other reasons. Someone saw my tracks. People have begun to notice my existence. One day, I will be discovered. And there is nothing left here for you to cherish—no farm, no home, and—

Roran isn't dead! he shouted emotionally.

But if you stay here, you will have to explain the truth. He has the right to know how and why his father died. What will his reaction be once he learns I exist?

Saphira's arguments churned endlessly through Eragon's mind. At the thought of leaving Palancar Valley, fear rose in him. This was the homeland where he had been born and raised. Yet when he imagined the satisfaction of avenging his wrongs, it greatly soothed his pain. Do I have enough strength?

You have me.

He truly could not make up his mind. What he was considering was madness, a venture with nine chances of death and only one of life. Slowly, contempt for his own indecision rose within him, and a cruel smile flickered across his lips. Saphira was right. Nothing mattered more than action itself. Action was the essence. What could satisfy him more than defeating the men in black? A terrible spirit and strength grew inside him, seizing all his emotions and twisting them into a club of rage that could sweep aside everything, carved with two words: revenge. He nodded fiercely. I'll do it, he said firmly.

He broke off contact with Saphira and sprang from bed, his body coiled like a compressed spring, ready to unleash itself. Dawn had not yet broken, and he had slept only a few hours. An enemy with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous enemy, he thought. That is me.

Only yesterday, even standing upright and walking had been a tremendous struggle. Yet under an iron will, his movements were now steady and forceful, while he ignored and resisted the pain in his body.

As Eragon quietly slipped outside, he heard two people whispering. Curious, he stopped and listened closely. First came Elain's gentle voice: "...somewhere to stay. We have spare rooms." Horst's deep reply was too indistinct to hear. Then Elain said, "Yes, that poor child."

This time Eragon heard Horst clearly. "Perhaps..." After a long pause, he continued, "I've been thinking about what Eragon said. I'm not sure he told us the whole truth."

"What do you mean?" Elain asked, concern in her voice.

"When we set out for his farm, the road was smooth at first, scraped flat by the board he used to drag Garrow. Farther on, the snow was trampled into chaos. His tracks and the drag marks vanished there, but we found those enormous footprints again—the same ones that had appeared at the farm. And what really happened to his leg? I don't believe he could scrape off such a large patch of skin without noticing it. Before, I didn't want to force him to tell us the truth, but I've changed my mind."

"Maybe whatever he saw frightened him so badly that he doesn't want to talk about it," Elain guessed. "You saw for yourself how confused he was."

"That still doesn't explain how he brought Garrow nearby without leaving any trace on the road."

Saphira was right, Eragon thought. It's time to go. Too many people, too many questions. Sooner or later, they'll find the answers. He continued onward, every creak of the floor making his whole body tense.

The streets were empty; few people rose so early. He stopped and forced himself to focus. We don't need horses—Saphira is my mount—but I need to make her a saddle. She can catch the food we need, so that isn't something to worry about—but it would be better to bring some anyway. Other necessities can be found in the ruins of our home.

He went to the tanning vats Gedric kept at the edge of Carvahall. The terrible stench nearly made him shudder. Still, he pressed on toward the hut on the hillside, where finished leather hung in rows beneath the ceiling. Eragon cut down three large pieces of cowhide, and the theft filled him with guilt. Yet he comforted himself. This isn't really stealing. I'll repay Gedric later, and Horst too. He rolled up the thick hides, carried them to a small grove outside the village, and stuffed them into the fork of a tree before returning to Carvahall.

Now for food. He considered going to the tavern to get some, but changed his mind as he walked. With a cold smile, he turned another way. If I have to steal, stealing from Sloan is no different. He made his way to the butcher shop. Whenever Sloan was absent, the front door was locked, but the side door was secured only by a thin chain. He broke in without effort. The rooms inside were dark. Feeling around blindly, he found a pile of hard meat wrapped in cloth. He stuffed as much as possible inside his coat, hurried out, and quietly pulled the door shut behind him.

A woman nearby called his name. He clutched the hem of his coat tightly to keep the meat from falling out, then crouched into a corner. Horst passed less than ten feet away, moving between two rows of houses. Eragon could not help but shudder.

The moment Horst disappeared from sight, Eragon ran. Enduring the pain, he raced through the alleys and returned to the grove. He plunged inside, then looked back along the way he had come to see whether anyone had followed him. There was not a soul in sight. He breathed out in relief and reached for the hides in the tree. But they had vanished without a trace.

"Going somewhere?"

Eragon spun around. Brom stood there, frowning at him with a gloomy expression. A horrifying wound ran down one side of his head. A short sword in a brown sheath hung from his belt, and the hides were unmistakably in his hands.

Eragon narrowed his eyes, anger stirring in secret. How had this old man followed him so stealthily? The road had been completely clear; he had thought there was no one nearby. "Give them back!" he snapped.

"Why? So you can run away before Garrow is buried?" The accusation was severe.

"That's none of your business!" he shouted furiously. "Why were you following me?"

"I wasn't." Brom snorted. "I was waiting for you here. Where do you intend to go?"

"Nowhere." Eragon snatched the hides from Brom's hands. Brom made no move to stop him.

"I hope you have enough meat to feed your dragon."

Eragon froze. "What did you say?"

Brom crossed his arms. "Don't play games with me. I know the origin of the mark on your hand—Gedwëy ignasia, the shining palm. You touched a newly hatched dragon. I know why you came to me and asked those questions. And I know that a Dragon Rider has appeared again."

The hides and meat fell from Eragon's hands. The day has finally come... I have to escape immediately. With my injured leg, I can't outrun him, but if... Saphira! He called to her silently.

After several agonizing seconds, an answer finally came. I'm here.

We've been discovered! Come quickly! He sent her an image of where he was, and she rushed toward him at once. Now all he had to do was stall Brom. "How did you find out?" His voice sounded hollow.

Brom stared ahead, his lips moving silently as though he were speaking to someone else. Then he said, "There were clues and cracks everywhere. Anyone paying attention could find them. With the right knowledge, anyone could do it. Tell me, how is your dragon?"

"She," Eragon said, "is well. We weren't at the farm when the men in black came."

"Oh, your leg. You rode her into the sky?"

How had Brom guessed? Could the men in black have forced him to come here? Perhaps they wanted to use him to find Eragon and then ambush them. Where was Saphira? He searched with his mind and found her circling overhead. Come quickly!

No. I want to observe a little longer.

What are you doing?

For the massacre at Doru Araeba.

What?

Brom leaned against a tree at an angle, a faint smile on his face. "I spoke with her. She agreed to stay in the sky a while longer, until we reach an understanding. You should know that you have no choice but to answer my questions. Now tell me, where do you intend to go?"

At a loss, Eragon rubbed his temples. How could Brom speak with Saphira? The back of his head throbbed, and countless thoughts whirled through his mind. In the end, he reached one conclusion: he had to tell this old man some of the truth. "I want to find a safe place to recover from my injuries," he said.

"And then?"

It was a question he could not avoid. The throbbing at the back of his head worsened, making it impossible to think. Everything was so bewildering. Right now, all he wanted was to find someone and tell them what had happened over the past months. The thought that his secret had brought disaster upon Garrow had been gnawing at his heart. Eragon no longer held anything back. His voice trembling, he said, "I want to defeat those two men in black and kill them."

"A difficult task for such a young boy." Brom said it lightly, as if what Eragon intended to do were only natural. "Of course, it is worth doing, and you are capable of it. I was never sure whether offering help would only earn me cold looks." He pulled a large bundle from behind a bush, his tone becoming more forceful. "In any case, I have no intention of shrinking back and letting a young fellow roam everywhere with a dragon."

Was he offering help, or laying a trap? Eragon feared what methods his inscrutable enemies might use. But Brom had already won Saphira's trust, and they could speak mind to mind. If she trusted him... Eragon decided to set aside his doubts for now. "I don't need help," he said, then added reluctantly, "but you can come along."

"Then we'd best leave at once," Brom said. He paused expressionlessly, then added, "I think you'll find that your dragon is listening to you again."

Saphira? Eragon called.

Here.

He restrained the urge to demand an explanation from her. Will you wait for us at the farm?

All right. Have you reached an agreement?

I suppose so. She broke off contact and flew away. Eragon looked toward Carvahall, where people were coming and going. "I suppose they're looking for me."

Brom raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps. May we go?"

Eragon hesitated. "I want to leave a message for Roran. Disappearing without telling him why feels wrong."

"That has been taken care of," Brom said. "I asked Gertrude to give him a letter. It explains a few matters and warns him of several dangers. Is that enough?"

Eragon nodded, wrapped the meat in the hides, and set out. They carefully avoided being seen by anyone until they reached the main road. Then they lengthened their strides and hurried onward, hoping to get as far from Carvahall as possible. Eragon pushed ahead, both legs burning with pain. The monotonous rhythm of walking gave him strength to think. Once we reach home, if Brom doesn't give me some explanations, I won't take another step with him, he resolved. I hope he tells me more about the Dragon Riders, and exactly what my enemies are.

The remains of the farm came into view. Brom's long eyebrows twitched, and anger showed on his face. Eragon's heart sank. Nature had swiftly swallowed the farm back into its embrace. Snow and dust lay piled everywhere, covering the atrocities of the men in black. Of the barn, only a rectangular patch of ash remained, soon to be erased.

Saphira swept over the treetops, her wings stirring the wind and making Brom jerk his head upward. She dived diagonally from behind them, nearly brushing over their heads. The powerful gust buffeted them, and Eragon and Brom staggered. Light flowed across Saphira's scales as she wheeled sharply over the farm and landed gracefully.

Brom hurried forward, reverence and joy mingling on his face. His eyes shone, and a flash of tears appeared beside his cheeks before disappearing into his long beard. He stared at Saphira and stood still for a long time, breathing heavily. She stared back at him. Eragon heard him murmuring something and stepped closer to listen.

"So... it begins again. But when will there be an end? My eyes are dim with age; I cannot tell whether this is tragedy or comedy, for sorrow and joy are mixed within me... Whatever it is, my will has never changed. I..."

Saphira approached them with regal bearing, and the rest of his words slowly faded beyond hearing. Eragon passed Brom and went to meet Saphira, pretending he had heard nothing. Something had changed between him and Saphira. They seemed closer than before, yet they still remained strangers to one another. He rubbed her neck, feeling a faint sting in his palm. Through their connection came intense curiosity from the depths of her heart.

I have never seen a human besides you and Garrow, and he was covered in wounds when I saw him, she said.

You've seen many people through my eyes.

That isn't the same. She moved closer, tilted her long head, and studied Brom with one large blue eye. You humans are truly strange creatures, she said critically, continuing to examine him. Brom stood motionless as she sniffed the air, then extended a hand toward her. Saphira slowly lowered her head and allowed him to touch her forehead. Suddenly, she snorted and recoiled, retreating behind Eragon. Her tail slapped the ground with sharp cracks.

What's wrong? he asked. She did not answer.

Brom turned to Eragon and asked quietly, "What is her name?"

"Saphira." A strange expression crossed Brom's face. He gripped his walking stick so hard against the ground that his knuckles turned white. "Of all the names I gave you, that was the only one she liked. I thought it suited her," Eragon added quickly.

"It does indeed suit her," Brom said. There was something in his voice that Eragon could neither name nor understand. Loss, amazement, fear, or jealousy? He could not be certain. Perhaps it was none of them. Perhaps it was all of them. Brom raised his voice. "Greetings, Saphira. It is an immense honor to meet you." He made a strange gesture with one hand and bowed.

I like him, Saphira said quietly.

Of course you do. Who doesn't like flattery? Eragon patted her shoulder and entered the ruined house. Saphira followed behind Brom. The old man looked invigorated, brimming with energy.

Eragon climbed over the rubble and crawled through a doorway into what had once been his room. The heaps of shattered wood no longer resembled their former shapes. He could only rely on memory as he searched through the walls. At last, he found his empty pack. Part of its wooden frame was broken, but it would not be hard to repair. He kept searching and finally dug out his crossbow, still safely enclosed in its deerskin case.

Though the outer case was badly scraped, he was pleased to see that the oiled wooden parts were undamaged. At least I still have a little luck. He strung the crossbow and tested it. It bent easily in his hands without the faintest creak. Satisfied, he began looking for the quiver. It was buried nearby, though many of the arrows had broken.

He unstrung the crossbow and handed it, along with the quiver, to Brom. Brom remarked, "That would take a pair of strong arms to draw." Eragon silently accepted the compliment. He continued rummaging through the ruins for anything useful, tossing his finds onto the ground beside Brom. Yet there was pitifully little. "What now?" Brom asked, his sharp gaze probing. Eragon looked away.

"Find somewhere to hide."

"Do you have a place in mind?"

"Yes." He tightly bundled everything except the crossbow, slung it onto his back, said, "This way," and led them into the forest. Saphira, follow us from the sky. Your tracks are too easy for people to find and follow.

All right. She took off behind them.

Their destination was nearby, but Eragon still took a roundabout route to confuse any possible pursuers. By the time he finally stopped in a thorn thicket suitable for hiding, a full hour had passed.

The uneven clearing at its center was just large enough for two people and a dragon. Red squirrels bounced into the leaves, chittering protests at the intrusion. Brom pulled himself free from a tangle of vines and looked around with interest. "Who else knows about this place?" he asked.

"No one. I found it shortly after moving here. It took me a week to crawl to the middle and another week to clear away the deadwood." Saphira landed beside them, folded her wings, and carefully avoided the thorns. Curling up, her hard scales snapped the thin branches of the shrubs. She rested her head on the ground, her unfathomable eyes following the two of them closely.

Brom stood leaning on his staff, staring at Saphira. His scrutinizing gaze made Eragon uneasy.

Eragon watched them until hunger forced him to move. He built a fire, filled a pot with snow, and set it over the flames to melt. Once the water boiled, he cut the meat into large chunks and threw them in, adding a piece of salt. Not much of a feast, he thought gloomily, but it will fill our stomachs. We may have to eat this for quite some time, so I'd better get used to it.

The stew slowly bubbled, and the clearing filled with the rich scent of meat. Saphira's tongue slipped out as she tasted the air. Once the meat had softened, Brom came over as well. Eragon divided the food among them. They ate in silence, avoiding one another's eyes. When they finished, Brom took out his pipe and lit it with leisurely ease.

"Why are you coming with me?" Eragon asked.

Smoke drifted from Brom's mouth, curling upward through the thicket before slowly vanishing into the air. "I have a great interest in preserving your life," he replied.

"What does that mean?" Eragon pressed.

"To be frank, I am a storyteller. I happen to believe that interesting stories will unfold around you. You are the first Dragon Rider in a hundred years to exist beyond the king's control. What will happen afterward? Will you be destroyed as a martyr? Will you join the Varden? Or will you kill King Galbatorix? Such questions set the heart racing. I want to witness every moment myself, and for that, I am willing to do anything."

Eragon felt a hard knot form in his stomach. He did not think he would do any of those things, especially become a martyr. I only want revenge. As for everything else... I don't have that kind of ambition. "Maybe. But tell me—how can you speak with Saphira?"

Brom did not answer immediately. He packed more tobacco into his pipe, waited until it was lit again, and clenched it between his teeth before saying, "Very well. If you want to know, you shall know. But you may not like it." He stood, brought his bundle beside the fire, and pulled out a long object wrapped in cloth. It was about five feet long and, judging by how he held it, quite heavy.

He untied the cloth layer by layer, as though unwrapping a mummy. A sword slowly came into view, and Eragon stared wide-eyed, transfixed. Silver wire wrapped the hilt, polished until it shone like starlight. Its pommel was teardrop-shaped, made of gold, and set with a ruby the size of a quail's egg. The smooth, glasslike sheath was wine-red, its only decoration an unusual black mark etched into it. A leather belt lay beside the sword, with a heavy buckle. When the final strip of cloth came free, Brom handed the weapon to Eragon.

The hilt fit Eragon's palm perfectly, as though it had been custom-made for him. He slowly drew the blade. It slid from the sheath without a sound. The blade was the color of blood, gleaming red in the firelight, dazzlingly beautiful. The same black symbol from the sheath was engraved upon it. Its edge was impossibly sharp, curving in a graceful line toward the point. It felt utterly natural in his hand, like an extension of his arm, as different from the farm tools he was accustomed to as heaven was from earth. A faint, chilling killing intent emanated from the sword, as though an unstoppable force lay hidden within it. It had been forged for savage war, to destroy human lives. Yet it possessed a soul-stealing beauty.

"It once belonged to a Dragon Rider," Brom said solemnly. "When a Dragon Rider completes all training, the elves give him a sword. The method of forging them is a closely guarded secret. Swords made by their hands remain forever sharp and never rust. In the past, it was customary for the sword's color to match that of the Rider's dragon, but I think we can make an exception now. This sword is called Zar'roc. I do not know what the name means. Perhaps it was tied to the personal experiences of its former owner." He watched Eragon lightly swing the blade.

"Where did you get it?" Eragon asked. Reluctantly, he sheathed the sword and held it out to Brom. But Brom made no move to take it.

"That is unimportant," Brom said. "All I can tell you is that I went through peril after peril to obtain it. Keep it. You have a greater right to it than I do, and I imagine you will need it before your task is complete."

This generous act completely dispelled Eragon's wariness. "This is a precious gift. Thank you." He did not know what else to say, so he kept stroking the sheath. "What is this mark?" he asked.

"It is that Rider's crest." Eragon wanted to interrupt, but Brom glared at him until he swallowed the words. "Now I can tell you, if you insist on knowing, that anyone who receives suitable training can communicate with a dragon. And," he raised one finger for emphasis, "even so, that proves nothing. I know more about dragons and their power than any living person in the world. The knowledge I can teach you would take years to discover on your own. Learning directly from me is a shortcut. As for why I know so much, that is a secret."

When Brom finished speaking, Saphira raised herself and came to Eragon's side. He drew the sword for her to see. It has power, she said, touching the tip with her snout. The rainbow gleam of the blade spread over Saphira's scales, suddenly rippling like water. She raised her head and chest, snorting with satisfaction. Then the strange radiance faded from the sword, and it gradually returned to normal. Eragon sheathed it, deeply puzzled.

Brom raised his eyebrows. "That is what I mean when I say dragons are always full of surprises. Things... happen around them, mysteries that could never occur elsewhere. Though Riders and dragons fought side by side for centuries, they never uncovered the full extent of their power. Some even say that dragons themselves do not know where their potential ends. They possess some connection to this land that lets them overcome every obstacle. What Saphira just did proves my earlier point: there is much you do not yet understand."

A long silence followed. "Perhaps," Eragon said, "but I can learn. What I need to know most now is about the men in black. What do you know about them?"

Brom drew a deep breath. "They are called the Ra'zac. No one knows whether that is the name of their race or their own name. In any case, if each of them has an individual name, it is closely concealed. The Ra'zac never appeared before Galbatorix came to power. He must have gathered them during his travels and taken them into his service as hounds. Very little is known about them—one might as well say nothing at all. But I can tell you this: they are not human. I once had the chance to glimpse one's head. I saw something like a pointed bird's beak, and black eyes as large as my fist. How they can speak our language has always baffled me. Without question, the rest of their bodies are equally strange. That is why they are always wrapped in black cloaks, regardless of the weather.

"In strength, they surpass any man and can leap astonishingly far. But thankfully, they do not know magic. Otherwise, you would already have fallen into their clutches. I also know that they loathe sunlight, though that does not hinder their actions. Never make the mistake of underestimating the Ra'zac. They are cunning by nature, with schemes as numerous as their tricks."

"How many Ra'zac are there?" Eragon asked, astonished that Brom knew so much.

"As far as I know, only the two you saw. There may be others, but I have never heard of them. Perhaps they are the last survivors of a race on the verge of extinction. They are dragon hunters who answer directly to the king. Whenever word of a dragon within the Empire reaches Galbatorix's ears, he sends the Ra'zac to investigate, and the tragedy of broken homes and ruined lives follows them like a shadow." Brom blew a string of smoke rings, watching them drift upward over the thorns. Eragon paid them little attention at first, then was astonished to discover that the rings were changing colors as they spun rapidly. Brom winked mischievously.

Eragon was certain no one had ever seen Saphira, so how had Galbatorix learned of her? When he voiced this doubt, Brom said, "You are right. It does not seem that anyone from Carvahall informed the king. Why don't you tell me where you found the dragon egg and how you raised Saphira? That may explain something."

Eragon hesitated, then began with finding the egg in the Spine and told him everything from beginning to end. It felt wonderful to pour out the secrets buried in his heart. Brom asked several questions, but for most of the time he listened intently. By the time Eragon finished, the sun had begun to sink westward. They sat in silence as the clouds slowly took on a blush of crimson. Finally, Eragon broke the silence. "I only wish I knew where she came from. Saphira doesn't remember anything at all."

Brom lifted his head. "I do not know... You have answered some of my questions. I am certain that none of the people around us ever saw Saphira. The Ra'zac's information must have come from outside this valley, though whoever supplied it is likely dead by now... You have had a difficult time lately. You have done many things that moved me deeply."

Eragon stared blankly into the distance, then asked, "What happened to your head? It looks as though someone struck it with a stone."

"No, but it is a good guess." He took a deep draw on his pipe. "After dark, I hid near the Ra'zac's camp, trying to hear as much as I could. They ambushed me in the darkness and caught me unprepared. It was a clever trap, but they underestimated me. I drove them off with all my strength in the fight, though I was left with this foolish mark on my head." He laughed at himself. "I collapsed and did not wake until the next day. By then, they had already reached your home. It was too late to stop them, but I still went there, which is why I met you on the road."

Who is he, that he thought he could handle the Ra'zac alone? They ambushed him in secret, and he merely passed out? Eragon's mind churned. Agitated, he demanded, "When you saw the mark on my hand, the Gedwëy ignasia, why didn't you tell me what the Ra'zac were? Then I could have warned Garrow instead of going to find Saphira first. All three of us could have escaped."

Brom sighed deeply. "At that time, I had not decided what to do. I thought I could keep the Ra'zac away from you, and once they left, it would not be too late to tell you the truth about Saphira. But they were cleverer than I was. It was a mistake I regret beyond measure, and it made you pay a terrible price."

"Who are you?" Eragon asked, his tone suddenly harsh. "How could a mere storyteller from a mountain village happen to possess a Dragon Rider's sword? How do you know so much about the Ra'zac?"

Brom tapped out his pipe. "I believe I already stated that I do not intend to discuss that matter."

"My uncle lost his life because of this! He died!" Eragon slashed one arm through the air and shouted, "I trusted you because Saphira respects you, but I won't anymore! You are no longer the person I knew for years in Carvahall. Tell me clearly where you come from!"

For a long time, Brom stared at the smoke curling between them, deep furrows crossing his forehead. His only movement was to exhale stream after stream of smoke. Finally, he said, "Perhaps you have never considered that I spent most of my life outside Palancar Valley. Only after coming to Carvahall did I adopt the guise of a storyteller. I have played many different roles before many different people—I have had a very complicated life. And part of why I came here was the desire to flee those experiences. So no, I am not the person you once knew."

"Ha!" Eragon said dissatisfiedly. "That is your explanation?"

Brom smiled gently. "I am someone who came to offer you help. Do not dismiss what I just revealed—it is the most honest I have ever been. But I do not intend to answer your questions. You do not need to hear my history now; you have not earned that right. Yes, I possess knowledge that storyteller Brom could not possibly have, but I am far more than him. You must learn to accept that fact, as well as the fact that I will not describe my life to anyone who asks!"

Eragon glared at him darkly. "I'm going to sleep!" With that, he left the fire.

Brom did not seem surprised by his attitude, though a faint sadness showed in his eyes. He unrolled his bedding beside the fire, while Eragon lay down beside Saphira. A cold silence blanketed the camp.