We thought Brom would be with them, but even once he died, we could not stop them, for they still had to go to Gil’ead to find the Varden.
“Wait,” said Eragon. “You were responsible for my … transformation?”
In part. We touched the reflection of our race that the elves summon during the celebration. We provided the inspiration, and she-he-it provided the strength for the spell.
Eragon looked down and clenched his hand for a moment, not angry, but so filled with other emotions that he could not remain still. Saphira, Arya, his sword, the very shape of his body—he owed them all to the dragons within the room. “Elrun ono,” he said. Thank you.
You are most welcome, Shadeslayer.
“Have you helped Roran as well?”
Your cousin has required no assistance from us. Umaroth paused. We have watched both of you, Eragon and Saphira, for many years now. We have watched you grow from hatchlings to mighty warriors, and we are proud of all you have accomplished. You, Eragon, have been all we hoped for in a new Rider. And you, Saphira, have proven yourself worthy of being counted among the greatest members of our race.
Saphira’s joy and pride mingled with Eragon’s. He sank to one knee, even as she pawed at the floor and dipped her head. Eragon felt like jumping and shouting and otherwise celebrating, but he did none of those things. Instead, he said, “My sword is yours—”
—And my teeth and claws, said Saphira.
“To the end of our days,” they concluded in unison. “What would you have of us, Ebrithilar?”
Satisfaction came from Umaroth, and he replied, Now that you have found us, our days of hiding are over; we would go with you to Urû’baen and fight alongside you to kill Galbatorix. The time has come for us to leave our den and once and for all confront that traitorous egg-breaker. Without us, he would be able to pry open your minds as easily as did we, for he has many Eldunarí at his command.
I cannot carry all of you, said Saphira.
You shall not have to, said Umaroth. Five of us will stay to watch over the eggs, along with Cuaroc. In the event we should fail to defeat Galbatorix, they will tamper no more with the skeins of energy, but will content themselves with waiting until it is again safe for dragons to venture forth in Alagaësia. But you need not worry; we shall not be a burden to you, for we will provide the strength to move our weight.
“How many of you are there?” asked Eragon, gazing around the room.
One hundred and thirty-six. But do not think we will be able to best the Eldunarí Galbatorix has enslaved. We are too few, and those who were chosen to be placed within this vault were either too old and too valuable to risk in the fighting or too young and too inexperienced to participate in the battle. That is why I elected to join them; I provide a bridge between the groups, a point of common understanding that otherwise would be lacking. Those who are older are wise and powerful indeed, but their minds wander down strange paths, and it is often hard to convince them to concentrate upon anything outside of their dreams. Those who are younger are more unfortunate: they parted from their bodies before they should have; thus their minds remain limited by the size of their Eldunarí, which can never grow or expand once it leaves the flesh. Let that be a lesson to you, Saphira, not to disgorge your Eldunarí unless you have reached a respectable size or face the direst of emergencies.
“So we are still outmatched,” said Eragon grimly.
Yes, Shadeslayer. But now Galbatorix cannot force you to your knees the moment he sees you. We may not be able to best them, but we will be able to hold off his Eldunarí long enough for you and Saphira to do what you must. And have hope; we know many things, many secrets, about war and magic and the workings of the world. We will teach you what we can, and it may be that some piece of our knowledge will allow you to slay the king.
Thereafter, Saphira inquired of the eggs and learned that two hundred and forty-three had been saved. Twenty-six were set to be joined with Riders; the rest were unbonded. Then they fell to discussing the flight to Urû’baen. While Umaroth and Glaedr advised Saphira as to the quickest way to reach the city, the dragon-headed man sheathed his sword, laid down his shield, and, one by one, began to remove the Eldunarí from their alcoves in the wall. He placed each of the gemlike orbs in the silk purse upon which it had been resting, then piled them gently on the floor next to the glowing pit. The girth of the largest Eldunarí was so immense, the metal-bodied dragon was unable to wrap his arms all the way around it.
As Cuaroc worked, and as they talked, Eragon continued to feel a sense of dazed incredulousness. He had hardly dared to dream that there were any other dragons hiding in Alagaësia. Yet here they were, the remnants of a lost age. It was as if the stories of old had come to life, and he and Saphira were caught in the midst of them.
Saphira’s emotions were more complicated. Knowing that her race was no longer doomed to extinction had lifted a shadow from her mind—a shadow that had lain there for as long as Eragon could remember—and her thoughts soared with a joy so profound, it seemed to make her eyes and scales sparkle brighter than normal. Still, a curious defensiveness tempered her elation, as though she was self-conscious before the Eldunarí.
Even through his daze, Eragon was aware of Glaedr’s change of mood; he did not seem to have entirely forgotten his sorrow, but he was the happiest Eragon had felt him since Oromis had died. And while Glaedr was not deferential to Umaroth, he treated the other dragon with a level of respect that Eragon had not witnessed from him before, not even when Glaedr had spoken with Queen Islanzadí.
When Cuaroc was nearly done with his task, Eragon walked to the edge of the pit and peered into it. He saw a circular shaft that sank through the stone for over a hundred feet, then opened onto a cave half filled with a sea of glowing stone. The thick yellow liquid bubbled and splattered like a pot of boiling glue, and tails of swirling fumes rose from its heaving surface. He thought he saw a light, like that of a spirit, flit across the face of the burning sea, but it vanished so quickly, he could not be sure.
Come, Eragon, said Umaroth as the dragon-headed man set the last of the Eldunarí who were to travel with them upon the pile. You must cast a spell now. The words are as follows—
Eragon frowned as he listened. “What is the … twist in the second line? What am I supposed to twist, the air?”
Umaroth’s explanation left Eragon even more confused. Umaroth attempted again, but Eragon still could not understand the concept. Other, older Eldunarí joined in the conversation, but their explanations made even less sense, for they came mainly as a torrent of overlapping images, sensations, and strange, esoteric comparisons that left Eragon hopelessly bewildered.
Somewhat to his relief, Saphira and Glaedr seemed similarly puzzled, although Glaedr said, I think I understand, but it is like trying to catch hold of a frightened fish; whenever I think I have it, it slips out between my teeth.
At last Umaroth said, This is a lesson for another time. You know what the spell is supposed to do, if not how. That will have to suffice. Take from us the strength needed and cast it, and then let us be off.
Nervous, Eragon fixed the words of the spell in his mind to avoid making mistakes, and then he began to speak. As he uttered the lines, he drew upon the reserves of the Eldunarí, and his skin tingled as an enormous rush of energy poured through him, like a river of water both hot and cold.
The air around the uneven pile of Eldunarí rippled and shimmered; then the pile seemed to fold in on itself and it winked out of sight. A gust of wind tousled Eragon’s hair, and a soft, dull thud echoed throughout the chamber.
Astonished, Eragon watched as Saphira pushed her head forward and swung it through the spot where the Eldunarí had just been. They had disappeared, completely and utterly, as if they had never existed, and yet he and she could still feel the dragons’ minds close at hand.
Once you leave the vault, said Umaroth, the entrance to this pocket of space will remain at a fixed distance above and behind you at al
l times, save when you are in a confined area or when a person’s body should happen to pass through that space. The entrance is no larger than a pinprick, but it is more deadly than any sword; it would cut right through your flesh were you to touch it.
Saphira sniffed. Even your scent has gone.
“Who discovered how to do this?” Eragon asked, amazed.
A hermit who lived on the northern coast of Alagaësia twelve hundred years ago, Umaroth replied. It is a valuable trick if you want to hide something in plain sight, but dangerous and difficult to do correctly. The dragon was silent for a moment thereafter, and Eragon could feel him gathering his thoughts. Then Umaroth said, There is one more thing you and Saphira need to know. The moment you pass through the great arch behind you—the Gate of Vergathos—you will begin to forget about Cuaroc and the eggs hidden here, and by the time you reach the stone doors at the end of the tunnel, all memory of them will have vanished from your minds. Even we Eldunarí will forget about the eggs. If we succeed in killing Galbatorix, the gate will restore our memories, but until then, we must remain ignorant of them. Umaroth seemed to rumble. It is … unpleasant, I know, but we cannot allow Galbatorix to learn of the eggs.
Eragon disliked the idea, but he could not think of a reasonable alternative.
Thank you for telling us, said Saphira, and Eragon added his thanks to hers.
Then the great metal warrior, Cuaroc, picked up his shield from the floor, drew his sword, and walked over to his ancient throne and sat thereon. After laying his naked blade across his knees and leaning his shield against the side of the throne, he placed his hands flat upon his thighs and grew as still as a statue, save for the dancing sprites of his crimson eyes, which gazed out over the eggs.
Eragon shivered as he turned his back on the throne. There was something haunting about the sight of the lone figure at the far side of the chamber. Knowing that Cuaroc and the other Eldunarí who were staying behind might have to remain there by themselves for another hundred years—or longer—made it difficult for Eragon to leave.
Farewell, he said with his mind.
Farewell, Shadeslayer, five whispers answered. Farewell, Brightscales. Luck be with you.
Then Eragon squared his shoulders, and together he and Saphira strode through the Gate of Vergathos and thus departed the Vault of Souls.
RETURN
ERAGON FROWNED AS he stepped out of the tunnel into the early-afternoon sunlight that bathed the clearing before the Rock of Kuthian.
He felt as if he had forgotten something important. He tried to remember what, but nothing came to mind, only a sense of emptiness that unsettled him. Had it to do with … no, he could not recall. Saphira, did you … he started to say, then trailed off.
What?
Nothing. I just thought … Never mind; it doesn’t matter.
Behind them, the doors to the tunnel swung shut with a hollow boom, and the lines of glyphs upon them faded away, and the rough, mossy spire once again appeared to be a solid piece of stone.
Come, said Umaroth, let us be away. The day grows long, and many leagues lie between here and Urû’baen.
Eragon glanced around the clearing, still feeling as if he was missing something; then he nodded and climbed into Saphira’s saddle.
As he tightened the straps around his legs, the eerie chatter of a shadow bird sounded among the heavy-boughed fir trees to the right. He looked, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. He made a face. He was glad to have visited Vroengard, but he was equally glad to be leaving. The island was an unfriendly place.
Shall we? asked Saphira.
Let’s, he said with a sense of relief.
With a sweep of her wings, Saphira jumped into the air and took flight over the grove of apple trees at the other side of the clearing. She rose quickly above the floor of the bowl-shaped valley, circling the ruins of Doru Araeba as she climbed. Once she was high enough to soar over the mountains, she turned east and set off for the mainland and Urû’baen, leaving behind the remains of the Riders’ once-glorious stronghold.
THE CITY OF SORROWS
THE SUN WAS still near its zenith when the Varden arrived at Urû’baen.
Roran heard the cries from the men at the head of his column as they crested a ridge. Curious, he looked up from the heels of the dwarf in front of him, and when he arrived at the top of the ridge, he paused to take in the view, as had each of the warriors before him.
The land sloped gently downward for several miles, flattening out into a broad plain dotted with farms, mills, and grand stone estates that reminded him of the ones near Aroughs. Some five miles away, the plain arrived at the outer walls of Urû’baen.
Unlike those of Dras-Leona, the walls of the capital were long enough to encompass the whole of the city. They were taller, too; even from a distance, Roran could see that they dwarfed those of both Dras-Leona and Aroughs. He guessed that they stood at least three hundred feet tall. Upon the wide battlements, he spotted ballistae and catapults mounted at regular intervals.
The sight worried him. The machines would be difficult to take down—no doubt they were protected from magical attacks—and he knew from experience just how deadly such weapons could be.
Behind the walls was an odd mixture of human-built structures and those he guessed the elves had made. The most prominent of the elven buildings were six tall, graceful towers—made of a malachite-green stone—which were scattered in an arc throughout what he assumed was the oldest part of the city. Two of the towers were missing their roofs, and he thought he saw the stumps of two more partially buried among the jumble of houses below.
What interested him most, however, was not the wall or the buildings, but the fact that much of the city lay shadowed underneath a huge stone shelf, which must have been over half a mile wide and five hundred feet thick at its narrowest. The overhang formed one end of a massive, sloping hill that stretched off to the northeast for several miles. Atop the craggy lip of the shelf stood another wall, like that which surrounded the city, and several thick watchtowers.
At the back of the cavelike recess underneath the shelf was an enormous citadel adorned with a profusion of towers and parapets. The citadel rose high above the rest of the city, high enough that it almost scraped the underside of the shelf. Most intimidating of all was the gate set within the front of the fortress: a great, gaping cavern that looked large enough for Saphira and Thorn to walk through side by side.
Roran’s gut tightened. If the gate was any indication, Shruikan was big enough to wipe out their whole army by himself. Eragon and Saphira had better hurry up, he thought. And the elves too. From what he had seen, the elves might be able to hold their own against the king’s black dragon, but even they would be hard-pressed to kill him.
All that and more Roran took in as he paused on the ridge. Then he tugged on Snowfire’s reins. Behind him, the white stallion snorted and followed as Roran resumed his weary march, following the winding road as it descended to the lowlands.
He could have ridden—was supposed to ride, actually, as captain of his battalion—but after his trip to Aroughs and back, he had come to loathe sitting in a saddle.
As he walked, he tried to figure out how best to attack the city. The pocket of stone Urû’baen sat nestled within would prevent assaults from the sides and the rear and would interfere with attacks from above, which was surely why the elves had chosen to settle in that location to begin with.
If we could somehow break off the overhang, we could crush the citadel and most of the city, he thought, but he deemed that unlikely, as the stone was too thick. Still, we might be able to take the wall at the top of the hill. Then we could drop stones and pour boiling oil onto those below. It wouldn’t be easy, though. Uphill fighting, and those walls … Maybe the elves could manage it. Or the Kull. They might enjoy it.
The Ramr River was several miles north of Urû’baen, too far to be of any help. Saphira could dig a ditch large enough to divert it, but even she would need week
s to complete such a project, and the Varden did not have weeks’ worth of food. They had only a few days left. After that, they would have to starve or disband.
Their only option was to attack before the Empire did. Not that Roran believed Galbatorix would attack. So far the king had seemed content to allow the Varden to come to him. Why should he risk his neck? The longer he waits, the weaker we grow.
Which meant a frontal assault—a brazen fool’s charge over open ground toward walls too thick to breach and too tall to climb while archers and war machines shot at them the whole time. Just imagining it made a sweat break out on his brow. They would die in droves. He cursed. We’ll dash ourselves to pieces, and all the while Galbatorix will sit laughing in his throne room. … If we can get close to the walls, the soldiers won’t be able to hit us with their foul contraptions, but then we’ll be vulnerable to pitch and oil and rocks being dropped on our heads.
Even if they managed to breach the walls, they would still have the whole of Galbatorix’s army to overcome. More important than the defenses of the city, then, would be the character and quality of the men the Varden would face. Would they fight to their last breath? Could they be frightened? Would they break and flee if pushed hard enough? What manner of oaths and spells bound them?
The Varden’s spies had reported that Galbatorix had placed an earl by the name of Lord Barst in command of the troops within Urû’baen. Roran had never heard of Barst before, but the information seemed to dismay Jörmundur, and the men in Roran’s battalion had shared enough stories to persuade him of Barst’s villainy. Supposedly, Barst had been lord of a rather large estate near Gil’ead, which the invasion of the elves had forced him to abandon. His vassals had lived in mortal fear of him, for Barst had a tendency to resolve disputes and punish criminals in the harshest manner possible, often choosing to simply execute those he believed were in the wrong. Of itself, that was hardly notable; many a lord throughout the Empire had a reputation for brutality. Barst, however, was not only ruthless but strong—impressively strong—and cunning to boot. In everything Roran had heard about Barst, the man’s intelligence had been clear. Barst might be a bastard, but he was a smart bastard, and Roran knew it would be a mistake to underestimate him. Galbatorix would not have chosen a weakling or a dullard to command his men.