She hummed and licked her chops.
And not only is their flesh soft and tasty, but the shells are good for the digestion.
If they’re just ordinary animals, then why didn’t my wards stop them? asked Eragon. At the very least, I should have been warned of approaching danger.
That, replied Glaedr, may be a result of the battle. Magic did not create the snalgli, but that does not mean they have remained unaffected by the forces that have wracked this place. We should not linger here any longer than necessary. Better we leave before whatever else is lurking on the island decides to test our mettle.
With Saphira’s help, Eragon cracked open the shell of the burnt snail and, by the glow of a red werelight, cleaned the spineless carcass within, which was a messy, slimy exercise that left him covered in gore up to his elbows. Then Eragon had Saphira bury the meat close to the bed of coals.
Afterward, Saphira returned to the spot in the grass where she had been lying, curled up once again, and went to sleep. This time Eragon joined her. Carrying his blankets and the saddlebags, one of which contained Glaedr’s heart of hearts, he crawled under her wing and settled in the warm, dark nook between her neck and her body. And there he spent the rest of the night, thinking and dreaming.
The following day was as gray and gloomy as the previous one. A light dusting of snow covered the sides of the mountains and the tops of the foothills, and the air had a chill that led Eragon to believe it would snow again later that day.
Tired as she was, Saphira did not stir until the sun was already a handsbreadth above the mountains. Eragon was impatient, but he let her sleep. It was more important for her to recover from the flight to Vroengard than for them to get an early start.
Once she was awake, Saphira dug up the snail carcass for him, and he cooked a large breakfast of snail … he was not sure what to call it: snail bacon? Whatever the name for it, the strips of meat were delicious, and he ate more than he usually would. Saphira devoured what was left, and then they waited an hour, for it would not be wise to enter a fight with food in their stomachs.
Finally, Eragon rolled up his blankets and strapped the saddle back onto Saphira, and together with Glaedr they set off for the Rock of Kuthian.
THE ROCK OF KUTHIAN
The walk to the apple grove seemed shorter than it had the previous day. The gnarled trees were as ominous as ever, and Eragon kept his hand on Brisingr the whole time they were in the thicket.
As before, he and Saphira stopped at the edge of the tangled clearing that fronted the Rock of Kuthian. A flock of crows was perched upon the rough crag of stone, and at the sight of Saphira, they rose cawing into the air-as ill an omen as Eragon could imagine.
For half an hour, Eragon stood fixed in place as he cast spell after spell, searching for any magic that could cause him, Saphira, or Glaedr harm. Woven throughout the clearing, the Rock of Kuthian, and-so far as he could tell-the rest of the island, he found a daunting array of enchantments. Some of the spells embedded in the depths of the earth had such power that it felt as if a great river of energy was flowing beneath his feet. Others were small and seemingly innocuous, sometimes affecting only a single flower or a single branch of a tree. More than half of the enchantments were dormant-because they lacked energy, no longer had an object upon which to act, or were waiting for a certain set of circumstances that had yet to arrive-and a number of the spells seemed to conflict, as if the Riders, or whoever had cast them, had sought to modify or negate earlier pieces of magic.
Eragon was unable to determine the purpose of most of the spells. No record remained of the words used to cast them, only the structures of energy that the long-dead magicians had so carefully created, and those structures were difficult, if not impossible, to interpret. Glaedr was of some help, as he was familiar with many of the older, larger pieces of magic that had been placed on Vroengard, but otherwise Eragon was forced to guess. Fortunately, even though he could not always figure out what a spell was supposed to do, he was often able to establish whether it would affect him, Saphira, or Glaedr. It was a complicated process that required complicated incantations, though, and it took him another hour to examine all the spells.
What most worried him-and Glaedr as well-were the spells that they might not have been able to detect. Ferreting out other magicians’ enchantments grew vastly more difficult if they had tried to hide their work.
At last, when Eragon was as confident as he could be that there were no traps on or around the Rock of Kuthian, he and Saphira walked across the clearing to the base of the jagged, lichen-covered spire.
Eragon tilted his head back and looked toward the top of the formation. It seemed incredibly far away. He saw nothing unusual about the stone, nor did Saphira.
Let us say our names and be done with it, she said.
Eragon sent a questioning thought to Glaedr, and the dragon responded: She is right. There is no reason to delay. Speak your name, and Saphira and I shall do likewise.
Feeling nervous, Eragon clenched his hands twice, then unslung his shield from his back, drew Brisingr, and dropped into a crouch.
“My name,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “is Eragon Shadeslayer, son of Brom.”
My name is Saphira Bjartskular, daughter of Vervada.
And mine Glaedr Eldunari, son of Nithring, she of the long tail.
They waited.
Off in the distance, the crows cawed, as if mocking them. Unease stirred within Eragon, but he ignored it. He had not really expected opening the vault to be quite so simple.
Try again, but this time say your piece in the ancient language, advised Glaedr.
So Eragon said, “Nam iet er Eragon Sundavar-Vergandi, sonr abr Brom.”
And then Saphira repeated her name and lineage in the ancient language, as did Glaedr.
Again nothing happened.
Eragon’s unease deepened. If their trip had been in vain … No, it did not bear thinking about. Not yet. Maybe all of our names have to be uttered out loud, he said.
How? asked Saphira. Am I supposed to roar at the stone? And what of Glaedr?
I can say your names for you, said Eragon.
It seems unlikely that is what is required, but we may as well attempt it, said Glaedr.
In this or the ancient language?
The ancient language, I would think, but try both to be certain.
Two times then Eragon recited their names, yet the stone remained as stolid and unchanging as ever. Finally, frustrated, he said, Maybe we’re in the wrong place; maybe the entrance to the Vault of Souls is on the other side of the stone. Or maybe it’s on the very top.
If that were the case, wouldn’t the directions contained within Domia abr Wyrda have mentioned it? asked Glaedr.
Eragon lowered his shield. When are riddles ever easy to understand?
What if only you are supposed to give your name? Saphira said to Eragon. Did not Solembum say, “… when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.” Your name, Eragon, not mine or Glaedr’s.
Eragon frowned. It’s possible, I suppose. But if only my name is needed, then perhaps I have to be by myself when I say it.
With a growl, Saphira leaped into the air, ruffling Eragon’s hair and battering the plants in the clearing with the wind from her wings. Then try, and be quick about it! she said as she flew east, away from the rock.
When she was a quarter mile away, Eragon looked back at the uneven surface of the rock, once more raised his shield, and once more pronounced his name, first in his own tongue and then in that of the elves.
No door or passageway revealed itself. No cracks or fissures appeared within the stone. No symbols traced themselves upon its surface. In every respect, the towering spire seemed to be nothing more than a solid piece of granite, devoid of any secrets.
Saphira! Eragon shouted with his mind. Then he swore and stalked back and forth within the clearing, kicking at loose s
tones and branches.
He returned to the base of the rock as Saphira swooped down to the clearing. The talons on her hind legs cut deep gouges in the soft earth as she landed, back-flapping to slow herself to a halt. Leaves and blades of grass swirled about her, as if caught in a whirlwind.
Once she had dropped to all fours and folded her wings, Glaedr said, I take it you did not meet with success?
No, snapped Eragon, and he glared at the spire.
The old dragon seemed to sigh. I was afraid this would be the case. There is only one explanation-
That Solembum lied to us? That he sent us off on a wild chase so that Galbatorix could destroy the Varden while we’re gone?
No. That in order to open this … this …
Vault of Souls, said Saphira.
Yes, this vault he told you about-that in order to open it, we must speak our true names.
The words fell between them like weighty stones. For a time, none of them spoke. The thought intimidated Eragon, and he was reluctant to address it, as if doing so would somehow make the situation worse.
But if it’s a trap- said Saphira.
Then it is a most devilish trap, said Glaedr. The question you must decide is this: do you trust Solembum? For to proceed is to risk more than our lives; it is to risk our freedom. If you do trust him, can you be honest enough with yourselves to discover your true names, and quickly too? And are you willing to live with that knowledge, however unpleasantit might be? Because if not, then we should leave this very moment. I have changed since Oromis’s death, but I know who I am. But do you, Saphira? Do you, Eragon? Can you really tell me what it is that makes you the dragon and Rider you are?
Dismay crept through Eragon as he gazed up at the Rock of Kuthian.
Who am I? he wondered.
AND ALL THE WORLD A DREAM
Nasuada laughed as the starry sky spun around her and she fell tumbling toward a crevice of brilliant white light miles below.
Wind tore at her hair, and her shift flapped wildly, the ragged ends of the sleeves snapping like whips. Great big bats, black and dripping, flocked about her, nipping at her wounds with teeth that cut and stabbed and burned like ice.
And still she laughed.
The crevice widened and the light engulfed her, blinding her for a minute. When her eyes cleared, she found herself standing in the Hall of the Soothsayer, looking at herself lying strapped to the ash-colored slab. Next to her limp body stood Galbatorix: tall, broad-shouldered, with a shadow where his face ought to be and a crown of crimson fire upon his head.
He turned toward where she was standing and extended a gloved hand. “Come, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad. Unbend your pride and pledge your fealty to me, and I shall give you everything you have ever wanted.”
She uttered a derisive noise and lunged toward him with her hands outstretched. Before she could tear out his throat, the king vanished in a cloud of black mist.
“What I want is to kill you!” she shouted toward the ceiling.
The chamber rang with Galbatorix’s voice as it emanated from every direction at once: “Then here you shall stay until you realize the error of your ways.”
* * *
Nasuada opened her eyes. She was still on the slab, her wrists and ankles chained down and the wounds from the burrow grub throbbing as if they had never stopped.
She frowned. Had she been unconscious, or had she just been talking with the king? It was so difficult to tell when-
In one corner of the chamber, she saw the tip of a thick green vine force its way between the painted tiles, cracking them. More vines appeared next to the first; they poked through the wall from the outside and spread across the floor, covering it in a sea of writhing, snakelike appendages.
Watching them crawl toward her, Nasuada began to chuckle. Is this all he can think of? I have stranger dreams nearly every night.
As if in response to her scorn, the slab beneath her melted into the floor and the thrashing tendrils closed over her, wrapping around her limbs and holding them more securely than any chains. Her sight grew dark as the vines atop her multiplied, and the only thing she could hear was the sound of them sliding against one another: a dry, shifting sound, like that of falling sand.
The air around her grew thick and hot, and she felt as if she was having trouble breathing. Had she not known that the vines were only an illusion, she might have panicked then. Instead, she spat into the darkness and cursed Galbatorix’s name. Not for the first time. Nor for the last, she was sure. But she refused to allow him the pleasure of knowing he had unbalanced her.
Light … Golden sunbeams streaming across a series of rolling hills patched with fields and vineyards. She was standing by the edge of a small courtyard, underneath a trellis laden with blooming morning glories, the vines of which seemed uncomfortably familiar. She was wearing a beautiful yellow dress. There was a crystal goblet of wine in her right hand and the musky, cherry taste of wine upon her tongue. A slight breeze was blowing from the west. The air smelled of warmth and comfort and freshly tilled land.
“Ah, there you are,” said a voice behind her, and she turned to see Murtagh striding toward her from a grand estate. Like her, he held a goblet of wine. He was dressed in black hose and a doublet of maroon satin trimmed with gold piping. A gem-encrusted dagger hung from his studded belt. His hair was longer than she remembered, and he appeared relaxed and confident in a way she had not seen before. That, and the light upon his face, made him appear strikingly handsome-noble, even.
He joined her under the trellis and placed a hand on her bare arm. The gesture seemed casual and intimate. “You minx, abandoning me to Lord Ferros and his interminable stories. It took me half an hour to escape.” Then he paused and looked at her closer, and his expression became one of concern. “Are you feeling ill? Your cheeks look gray.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came to her. She could not think how to react.
Murtagh’s brow furrowed. “You had another one of your attacks, didn’t you?”
“I-I don’t know.… I can’t remember how I got here, or …” She trailed off as she saw the pain that appeared in Murtagh’s eyes, and which he quickly hid.
He slid his hand down to the small of her back as he moved around her to stare out at the hilly landscape. With a swift motion, he drained his goblet. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I know how confusing this is for you.… It isn’t the first time this has happened, but-” He took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. “What is the last thing you remember? Teirm? Aberon? The siege of Cithri? … The gift I gave you that night in Eoam?”
A terrible sense of uncertainty overcame her. “Uru’baen,” she whispered. “The Hall of the Soothsayer. That is my last memory.”
For an instant, she felt his hand tremble against her back, but his face betrayed no reaction.
“Uru’baen,” he repeated hoarsely. He looked at her. “Nasuada … it’s been eight years since Uru’baen.”
No, she thought. It can’t be. And yet everything she saw and felt seemed so real. The motion of Murtagh’s hair as the wind tousled it, the scent of the fields, the touch of her dress against her skin-it all seemed exactly as it should. But if she was actually there, then why hadn’t Murtagh reassured her of it by reaching out to her mind, as he had done before? Had he forgotten? If eight years had elapsed, he might not remember the promise he made to her so long ago in the Hall of the Soothsayer.
“I-” she started to say, and then she heard a woman call out:
“My Lady!”
She looked over her shoulder and saw a portly maid hurrying down from the estate, the front of her white apron flapping. “My Lady,” said the maid, and curtsied. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the children hoped that you would watch them put on their play for the guests.”
“Children,” she whispered. She looked back at Murtagh to see his eyes shining with tears.
“Aye,” he said. “Children. Four of them, all strong and healthy and full
of high spirits.”
She shuddered, overcome with emotion. She could not help it. Then she lifted her chin. “Show me what I have forgotten. Show me why I have forgotten.”
Murtagh smiled at her with what seemed like pride. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. He took her goblet and gave both glasses to the maid. Then he grasped her hands in his, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
An instant later, she felt a presence pressing against her mind, and then she knew: it was not him. It could never have been him.
Angered by the deception and by the loss of what could never be, she pulled her right hand free of Murtagh’s, grabbed his dagger, and shoved the blade into his side. And she shouted:
In El-harim, there lived a man, a man with yellow eyes!
To me, he said, “Beware the whispers, for they whisper lies!”
Murtagh regarded her with a curiously blank expression, and then he faded away before her. Everything around her-the trellis, the courtyard, the estate, the hills with the vineyards-vanished, and she found herself floating in a void without light or sound. She tried to continue her litany, but no sound came from her throat. She could not even hear the pounding of her pulse in her veins.
Then she felt the darkness twist, and-
She stumbled and fell onto her hands and knees. Sharp rocks scraped her palms. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light, she rose to her feet and looked around.
Haze. Ribbons of smoke drifting across a barren field similar to the Burning Plains.
She was once more clothed in her tattered shift, and her feet were bare.
Something roared behind her, and she spun around to see a twelve-foot-tall Kull charging toward her, swinging an ironbound club as large as she was. Another roar came from her left, and she saw a second Kull, as well as four smaller Urgals. Then a pair of cloaked, hunchbacked figures scurried out of the whitish haze and darted in her direction, chittering and waving their leaf-bladed swords. Although she had never seen them before, she knew they were the Ra’zac.
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