Eragon nodded. “I will be there.”
“Good.”
Hours passed as Eragon laughed and ate and drank and traded stories with old friends. Mead flowed like water, and the wedding feast became ever more boisterous. Clearing a space between the tables, the men tested their prowess against one another with feats of wrestling and archery and bouts with quarterstaves. Two of the elves, a man and a woman, demonstrated their skill with swordplay—awing the onlookers with the speed and grace of their dancing blades—and even Arya consented to perform a song, which sent shivers down Eragon’s spine.
Throughout, Roran and Katrina said little, preferring to sit and gaze at each other, oblivious to their surroundings.
When the bottom of the orange sun touched the distant horizon, however, Eragon reluctantly excused himself. With Saphira by his side, he left the sounds of revelry behind and walked to Nasuada’s pavilion, breathing deeply of the cool evening air to clear his head. Nasuada was waiting for him in front of her red command tent, the Nighthawks gathered close around. Without saying a word, she, Eragon, and Saphira made their way across the camp to the tents of the healers, where the injured warriors lay.
For over an hour, Nasuada and Eragon visited with the men who had lost their limbs or their eyes or had contracted an incurable infection in the course of fighting the Empire. Some of the warriors had been injured that morning. Others, as Eragon discovered, had been wounded on the Burning Plains and had yet to recover, despite all the herbs and spells lavished upon them. Before they had set forth among the rows of blanket-covered men, Nasuada had warned Eragon not to tire himself further by attempting to heal everyone he met, but he could not help muttering a spell here and there to ease pain or to drain an abscess or to reshape a broken bone or to remove an unsightly scar.
One of the men Eragon met had lost his left leg below the knee, as well as two fingers on his right hand. His beard was short and gray, and his eyes were covered with a strip of black cloth. When Eragon greeted him and asked how he fared, the man reached out and grasped Eragon by the elbow with the three fingers of his right hand. In a hoarse voice, the man said, “Ah, Shadeslayer. I knew you would come. I have been waiting for you ever since the light.”
“What do you mean?”
“The light that illuminated the flesh of the world. In a single instant, I saw every living thing around me, from the largest to the smallest. I saw my bones shining through my arms. I saw the worms in the earth and the gore-crows in the sky and the mites on the wings of the crows. The gods have touched me, Shadeslayer. They gave me this vision for a reason. I saw you on the field of battle, you and your dragon, and you were like a blazing sun among a forest of dim candles. And I saw your brother, your brother and his dragon, and they too were like a sun.”
The nape of Eragon’s neck prickled as he listened. “I have no brother,” he said.
The maimed swordsman cackled. “You cannot fool me, Shadeslayer. I know better. The world burns around me, and from the fire, I hear the whisper of minds, and I learn things from the whispers. You hide yourself from me now, but I can still see you, a man of yellow flame with twelve stars floating around your waist and another star, brighter than the others, upon your right hand.”
Eragon pressed his palm against the belt of Beloth the Wise, checking that the twelve diamonds sewn within were still concealed. They were.
“Listen to me, Shadeslayer,” whispered the man, pulling Eragon toward his lined face. “I saw your brother, and he burned. But he did not burn like you. Oh no. The light from his soul shone through him, as if it came from somewhere else. He, he was a void, a shape of a man. And through that shape came the brilliance that burned. Do you understand? Others illuminated him.”
“Where were these others? Did you see them as well?”
The warrior hesitated. “I could feel them close at hand, raging at the world as if they hated everything in it, but their bodies were hidden from my sight. They were there and not there. I cannot explain better than that.… I would not want to get any closer to those creatures, Shadeslayer. They aren’t human, of that I’m sure, and their hate, it was like the largest thunderstorm you’ve ever seen crammed into a tiny glass bottle.”
“And when the bottle breaks …,” Eragon murmured.
“Exactly, Shadeslayer. Sometimes I wonder if Galbatorix has managed to capture the gods themselves and make them his slaves, but then I laugh and call myself a fool.”
“Whose gods, though? The dwarves’? Those of the wandering tribes?”
“Does it matter, Shadeslayer? A god is a god, regardless of where he comes from.”
Eragon grunted. “Perhaps you’re right.”
As he left the man’s pallet, one of the healers pulled Eragon aside. She said, “Forgive him, my Lord. The shock of his wounds has driven him quite mad. He’s always ranting about suns and stars and glowing lights he claims to see. Sometimes it seems as if he knows things he shouldn’t, but don’t you be deceived, he gets them from the other patients. They gossip all the time, you know. It’s all they have to do, poor things.”
“I am not a lord,” Eragon said, “and he is not mad. I’m not sure what he is, but he has an uncommon ability. If he gets better or worse, please inform one of Du Vrangr Gata.”
The healer curtsied. “As you wish, Shadeslayer. I’m sorry for my mistake, Shadeslayer.”
“How was he hurt?”
“A soldier cut off his fingers when he tried to block a sword with his hand. Later, one of the missiles from the Empire’s catapults landed upon his leg, crushing it beyond repair. We had to amputate. The men who were beside him said that when the missile struck, he immediately began screaming about the light, and when they picked him up, they noticed that his eyes had turned pure white. Even his pupils have disappeared.”
“Ah. You have been most helpful. Thank you.”
It was dark when Eragon and Nasuada finally left the healers’ tents. Nasuada sighed and said, “Now I could use a mug of mead.” Eragon nodded, staring down between his feet. They started back to her pavilion, and after a while, she asked, “What are you thinking, Eragon?”
“That we live in a strange world, and I’ll be lucky if I ever understand more than a small portion of it.” Then he recounted his conversation with the man, which she found as interesting as he had.
“You should tell Arya about this,” said Nasuada. “She might know what these ‘others’ could be.”
They parted at her pavilion, Nasuada going inside to finish reading a report, while Eragon and Saphira continued on to Eragon’s tent. There Saphira curled up on the ground and prepared to sleep as Eragon sat next to her and gazed at the stars, a parade of wounded men marching before his eyes.
What many of them had told him continued to reverberate through his mind: We fought for you, Shadeslayer.
WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
Roran opened his eyes and stared at the drooping canvas overhead.
A thin gray light pervaded the tent, leaching objects of their color, rendering everything a pale shadow of its daylight self. He shivered. The blankets had slid down to his waist, exposing his torso to the cold night air. As he pulled them back up, he noticed that Katrina was no longer by his side.
He saw her sitting by the entrance to the tent, staring up at the sky. She had a cloak wrapped over her shift. Her hair fell to the small of her back, a dark tangled bramble.
A lump formed in Roran’s throat as he studied her. Dragging the blankets with him, he sat beside her. He placed an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, her head and neck warm against his chest. He kissed her on the brow. For a long while, he contemplated the glimmering stars with her and listened to the regular pattern of her breathing, the only sound besides his own in the sleeping world.
Then she whispered, “The constellations are shaped differently here. Have you noticed?”
“Aye.” He shifted his arm, fitting it against the curve of her waist and feeling the slight bulge of
her growing belly. “What woke you?”
She shivered. “I was thinking.”
“Oh.”
Starlight gleamed in her eyes as she twisted in his arms and gazed at him. “I was thinking about you and us … and our future together.”
“Those are heavy thoughts for so late at night.”
“Now that we are married, how do you plan to care for me and for our child?”
“Is that what worries you?” He smiled. “You won’t starve; we have gold enough to assure that. Besides, the Varden will always see to it that Eragon’s cousins have food and shelter. Even if something were to happen to me, they would continue to provide for you and the baby.”
“Yes, but what do you intend to do?”
Puzzled, he searched her face for the source of her agitation. “I am going to help Eragon end this war so we can return to Palancar Valley and settle down without fear of soldiers dragging us off to Urû’baen. What else would I do?”
“You will fight with the Varden, then?”
“You know I will.”
“As you would have fought today if Nasuada had let you?”
“Yes.”
“What of our baby, though? An army on the march is no place to raise a child.”
“We cannot run away and hide from the Empire, Katrina. Unless the Varden win, Galbatorix will find and kill us, or he will find and kill our children, or our children’s children. And I do not think the Varden will achieve victory unless everyone does their utmost to help them.”
She placed a finger over his lips. “You are my only love. No other man shall ever capture my heart. I will do everything I can to lighten your burden. I will cook your meals, mend your clothes, and clean your armor.… But once I give birth, I will leave this army.”
“Leave!” He went rigid. “That’s nonsense! Where would you go?”
“Dauth, perhaps. Remember, Lady Alarice offered us sanctuary, and some of our people are still there. I would not be alone.”
“If you think I’m going to let you and our newborn child go tramping across Alagaësia by yourselves, then—”
“You don’t need to shout.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” Clasping his hand between hers and pressing it against her heart, she said, “It’s not safe here. If it were only the two of us, I could accept the danger, but not when it is our baby who might die. I love you, Roran, I love you so much, but our child has to come before anything we want for ourselves. Otherwise, we do not deserve to be called parents.” Tears shone in her eyes, and he felt his own eyes dampen. “It was you, after all, who convinced me to leave Carvahall and hide in the Spine when the soldiers attacked. This is no different.”
The stars swam before Roran as his vision blurred. “I would rather lose an arm than be parted from you again.”
Katrina began to cry then, her quiet sobs shaking his body. “I don’t want to leave you either.”
He tightened his embrace and rocked back and forth with her. When her weeping subsided, he whispered in her ear, “I would rather lose an arm than be parted from you, but I would rather die than allow anyone to hurt you … or our child. If you are going to leave, you should leave now, while it’s still easy for you to travel.”
She shook her head. “No. I want Gertrude as my midwife. She’s the only one I trust. Besides, if I have any difficulty, I would rather be here, where there are magicians trained in healing.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” he said. “As soon as our child is born, you will go to Aberon, not Dauth; it is less likely to be attacked. And if Aberon becomes too dangerous, then you will go to the Beor Mountains and live with the dwarves. And if Galbatorix strikes at the dwarves, then you will go to the elves in Du Weldenvarden.”
“And if Galbatorix attacks Du Weldenvarden, I will fly to the moon and raise our child among the spirits who inhabit the heavens.”
“And they will bow down to you and make you their queen, as you deserve.”
She snuggled closer to him.
Together, they sat and watched as, one by one, the stars vanished from the sky, obscured by the glow spreading in the east. When only the morning star remained, Roran said, “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“I’ll just have to ensure we kill every last one of Galbatorix’s soldiers, capture all the cities in the Empire, defeat Murtagh and Thorn, and behead Galbatorix and his turncoat dragon before your time comes. That way, there will be no need for you to go away.”
She was silent for a moment, then said, “If you could, I would be very happy.”
They were about to return to their cot when, out of the glimmering sky, there sailed a miniature ship, woven of dry strips of grass. The ship hovered in front of their tent, rocking upon invisible waves of air, and almost seemed to be looking at them with its dragon-head-shaped prow.
Roran froze, as did Katrina.
Like a living creature, the ship darted across the path before their tent, then it swooped up and around, chasing an errant moth. When the moth escaped, the ship glided back toward the tent, stopping only inches from Katrina’s face.
Before Roran could decide if he should snatch the ship out of the air, it turned and flew off toward the morning star, vanishing once more into the endless ocean of the sky, leaving them to gaze after it in wonder.
ORDERS
Late that night, visions of death and violence gathered along the edges of Eragon’s dreams, threatening to overwhelm him with panic. He stirred with unease, wanting to break free but unable to do so. Brief, disjointed images of stabbing swords and screaming men and Murtagh’s angry face flashed before his eyes.
Then Eragon felt Saphira enter his mind. She swept through his dreams like a great wind, brushing aside his looming nightmare. In the silence that followed, she whispered, All is well, little one. Rest easy; you are safe, and I am with you.… Rest easy.
A sense of profound peace crept over Eragon. He rolled over and drifted off into happier memories, comforted by his awareness of Saphira’s presence.
When Eragon opened his eyes, an hour before sunrise, he found himself lying underneath one of Saphira’s vein-webbed wings. She had her tail wrapped around him, and her side was warm against his head. He smiled and crawled out from under her wing even as she lifted her head and yawned.
Good morning, he said.
She yawned again and stretched like a cat.
Eragon bathed, shaved with magic, cleaned the falchion’s scabbard of dried blood from the previous day, and then dressed in one of his elf tunics.
Once he was satisfied he was presentable, and Saphira had finished her tongue bath, they walked to Nasuada’s pavilion. All six of the current shift of Nighthawks were standing outside, their seamed faces set into their usual grim expressions. Eragon waited while a stocky dwarf announced them. Then he entered the tent, and Saphira crawled around to the open panel where she could insert her head and participate in the discussion.
Eragon bowed to Nasuada where she sat in her high-backed chair carved with blooming thistles. “My Lady, you asked me to come here to talk about my future; you said you had a most important mission for me.”
“I did, and I do,” said Nasuada. “Please, be seated.” She indicated a folding chair next to Eragon. Tilting the sword at his waist so it would not catch, he settled into the chair. “As you know, Galbatorix has sent battalions to the cities of Aroughs, Feinster, and Belatona in an attempt to prevent us from taking them by siege or, failing that, to slow our progress and force us to divide our own troops so we would be more vulnerable to the depredations of the soldiers who were camped north of us. After yesterday’s battle, our scouts reported that the last of Galbatorix’s men withdrew to parts unknown. I was going to strike at those soldiers days ago, but I had to refrain since you were absent. Without you, Murtagh and Thorn could have slaughtered our warriors with impunity, and we had no way of discovering whether the two of them were among the soldiers. Now th
at you are with us again, our position is somewhat improved, although not as much as I had hoped, given that we must now also contend with Galbatorix’s latest artifice, these men without pain. Our only encouragement is that the two of you, along with Islanzadí’s spellcasters, have proved you can fend off Murtagh and Thorn. Upon that hope depends our plan for victory.”
That red runt is no match for me, said Saphira. If he did not have Murtagh protecting him, I would trap him against the ground and shake him by the neck until he submitted to me and acknowledged me as leader of the hunt.
“I am sure you would,” said Nasuada, smiling.
Eragon asked, “What course of action have you decided upon, then?”
“I have decided upon several courses, and we must undertake them all simultaneously if any are to be successful. First, we cannot push farther into the Empire, leaving cities behind us that Galbatorix still controls. To do that would be to expose ourselves to attacks from both the front and the rear and to invite Galbatorix to invade and seize Surda while we were absent. So I have already ordered the Varden to march north, to the nearest place where we can safely cross the Jiet River. Once we are on the other side of the river, I will send warriors south to capture Aroughs while King Orrin and I continue with the remainder of our forces to Feinster, which, with your help and Saphira’s, should fall before us without too much trouble.
“While we are engaged in the tedious business of tramping across the countryside, I have other responsibilities for you, Eragon.” She leaned forward in her seat. “We need the full help of the dwarves. The elves are fighting for us in the north of Alagaësia, the Surdans have joined with us body and mind, and even the Urgals have allied themselves with us. But we need the dwarves. We cannot succeed without them. Especially now that we must contend with soldiers who cannot feel pain.”
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