She said, "Tonight Kvistor will dine in Morgothal's hall. That I know." She kissed her amulet again. "I wish I might break bread with him, along with mine husband, Bauden, but it is not mine time to sleep in the catacombs of Tronjheim, and Morgothal refuses entry to his hall to those who quicken their arrival. But in time, our family shall be reunited, including all of our ancestors since Guntera created the world from darkness. That I know."

Eragon knelt next to her, and in a hoa.r.s.e voice, he asked, "How do you know this?"

"I know because it is so." Her movements slow and respectful, Glumra touched the chiseled feet of each of the G.o.ds with the tips of her fingers. "How could it be otherwise? Since the world could not have created itself any more than a sword or a helm might, and since the only beings with the wherewithal to forge the earth and the heavens into shape are those with divine power, it is to the G.o.ds we must look for our answers. Them I trust to ensure the rightness of the world, and by mine trust, I free myself of the burdens of mine flesh."

She spoke with such conviction, Eragon felt a sudden desire to share in her belief. He longed to toss aside his doubts and fears and to know that, however horrible the world might seem at times, life was not mere confusion. He wished to know for certain that who he was would not end if a sword should shear off his head and that one day he would meet again with Brom, Garrow, and everyone else he had cared for and lost. A desperate yearning for hope and comfort filled him, confused him, left him unsteady upon the face of the earth.

And yet.

Part of himself held back and would not allow him to commit to the dwarf G.o.ds and bind his ident.i.ty and his sense of well-being to something he did not understand. He also had difficulty accepting that if G.o.ds did exist, the dwarf G.o.ds were the only ones. Eragon was certain that if he asked Nar Garzhvog or a member of the nomad tribes, or even the black priests of Helgrind, if their G.o.ds were real, they would uphold the supremacy of their deities just as vigorously as Glumra would uphold hers. How am I supposed to know which religion is the true religion? How am I supposed to know which religion is the true religion? he wondered. he wondered. Just because someone follows a certain faith does not necessarily mean it is the right path. . . . Perhaps Just because someone follows a certain faith does not necessarily mean it is the right path. . . . Perhaps no one religion contains all of the truth of the world. Perhaps every religion contains fragments of the truth and it is our responsibility to identify those fragments and piece them together. Or perhaps the elves are right and there are no G.o.ds. But how can I know for sure? no one religion contains all of the truth of the world. Perhaps every religion contains fragments of the truth and it is our responsibility to identify those fragments and piece them together. Or perhaps the elves are right and there are no G.o.ds. But how can I know for sure?

With a long sigh, Glumra murmured a phrase in Dwarvish, then rose from her knees and drew closed the silk curtain over the alcove. Eragon likewise stood, wincing as his battle-sore muscles stretched, and followed her to the table, where he returned to his chair. From a stone cupboard set into the wall, the dwarf woman took two pewter mugs, then retrieved a bladder full of wine from where it hung from the ceiling and poured a drink for both her and Eragon. She raised her mug and uttered a toast in Dwarvish, which Eragon struggled to imitate, and then they drank.

"It is good," said Glumra, "to know that Kvistor still lives on, to know that even now he is garbed in robes fit for a king while he enjoys the evening feast in Morgothal's hall. May he win much honor in the service of the G.o.ds!" And she drank again.

Once he had emptied his mug, Eragon began to bid farewell to Glumra, but she forestalled him with a motion of her hand. "Have you a place to stay, Shadeslayer, safe from those who wish you dead?" Whereupon Eragon told her how he was supposed to remain hidden underneath Tronjheim until Orik sent a messenger for him. Glumra nodded with a short, definitive jerk of her chin and said, "Then you and your companions must wait here until the messenger arrives, Shadeslayer. I insist upon it." Eragon started to protest, but she shook her head. "I could not allow the men who fought with mine son to languish in the damp and the dark of the caves while I yet have life in mine bones. Summon your companions, and we shall eat and be merry this gloomy night."

Eragon realized that he could not leave without upsetting Glumra, so he called to his guards and his translator. Together, they helped Glumra to prepare a dinner of bread, meat, and pie, and when it was ready, the lot of them ate and drank and talked late into the night. Glumra was particularly lively; she drank the most, laughed the loudest, and was always the first to make a witty remark. At first Eragon was shocked by her behavior, but then he noticed how her smiles never reached her eyes and how, if she thought no one was looking, the mirth would drain from her face and her expression would become one of somber quietude. Entertaining them, he concluded, was her way of celebrating her son's memory, as well as fending off her grief at Kvistor's death.

I have never met anyone like you before, he thought as he watched her. he thought as he watched her.

Long after midnight, someone knocked on the door of the hut. Hundfast ushered in a dwarf who was garbed in full armor and who seemed edgy and ill at ease; he kept glancing at the doors and windows and shadowed corners. With a series of phrases in the ancient language, he convinced Eragon that he was Orik's messenger, and then he said, "I am Farn, son of Flosi. . . . Argetlam, Orik bids you return with all possible haste. He has most important tidings concerning the events of today."

At the doorway, Glumra grasped Eragon's left forearm with fingers like steel, and as he gazed down into her flinty eyes, she said, "Remember your oath, Shadeslayer, and do not let the killers of mine son escape without retribution!"

"That I shall not," he promised.

CLANMEET The dwarves standing watch outside of Orik's chambers threw open the double doors that led inside as Eragon strode toward them.

The entryway beyond was long and ornate, furnished with three circular seats upholstered with red fabric set in a line down the middle of the room. Embroidered hangings decorated the walls, along with the dwarves' ubiquitous flameless lanterns, while the ceiling had been carved to depict a famous battle from dwarven history.

Orik stood consulting with a group of his warriors and several gray-bearded dwarves of Durgrimst Ingeitum. As Eragon approached, Orik turned toward him, his face grim. "Good, you did not delay! Hundfast, you may retire to your quarters now. We must needs speak in private."

Eragon's translator bowed and disappeared through an archway to the left, his footsteps echoing on the polished agate floor. Once he was out of hearing, Eragon said, "You don't trust him?"

Orik shrugged. "I do not know whom to trust at the moment; the fewer people who know what we have discovered, the better. We cannot risk the news escaping to another clan before tomorrow. If it does, it will certainly mean a clan war." The dwarves behind him muttered among themselves, appearing disconcerted.

"What is your news, though?" asked Eragon, worried.

The warriors gathered behind Orik moved aside as he gestured at them, revealing as they did so three bound and bloodied dwarves stacked on top of one another in the corner. The dwarf on the bottom groaned and kicked his feet in the air but was unable to extricate himself from under his fellow prisoners.

"Who are they?" asked Eragon.

Orik replied, "I had several of our smiths examine the daggers your attackers carried. They identified the craftsmanship as that of one Kiefna Long-nose, a bladesmith of our clan who has achieved great renown among our people."

"So he can tell us who bought the daggers and thus who our enemies are?"

A brusque laugh shook Orik's chest. "Hardly, but we were able to track the daggers from Kiefna to an armorer in Dalgon, many leagues from here, who sold them to a knurlaf with-"

"A knurlaf?" Eragon asked.

Orik scowled. "A woman. A woman with seven fingers on each hand bought the daggers two months ago."

"And did you find her? There can't be very many women with that number of fingers."

"Actually, the condition is fairly common among our people," said Orik. "Be that as it may, after quite a bit of difficulty, we managed to locate the woman in Dalgon. My warriors there questioned her most closely. She is of Durgrimst Nagra, but so far as we can determine, she was acting of her own accord, and not under orders from the leaders of her clan. From her, we learned that a dwarf had engaged her to buy the daggers and then to deliver them to a wine merchant who would take them with him from Dalgon. The woman's employer did not tell her where the daggers were destined, but by asking among the merchants of the city, we discovered that he traveled directly from Dalgon to one of the cities held by Durgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhuin."

"So it was was them!" Eragon exclaimed. them!" Eragon exclaimed.

"That or it could have been someone who wished us to think it was them. We needed more evidence before we could establish Az Sweldn rak Anhuin's guilt for certain." A twinkle appeared in Orik's eyes, and he raised a finger. "So, by means of a very, very clever spell, we retraced the path of the a.s.sa.s.sins back through the tunnels and caves and up to a deserted area on the twelfth level of Tronjheim, off the subadjunct auxiliary hall of the southern spoke in the western quadrant, along the . . . ah, well, it does not matter. But someday I will have to teach you how the rooms are arranged in Tronjheim, so that if ever you need to find a place within the city by yourself, you can. In any event, the trail led us to an abandoned storeroom where those three"-he gestured toward the bound dwarves-"had been staying. They were not expecting us, and so we were able to capture them alive, although they tried to kill themselves. It was not easy, but we broke the minds of two of them-leaving the third for the other grimstborithn to interrogate at their pleasure-and we took from them everything they knew about this matter." Orik pointed at the prisoners again. "It was they who equipped the a.s.sa.s.sins for the attack, gave them the daggers and their black clothes, and fed and sheltered them last night."

"Who are they?" asked Eragon.

"Bah!" exclaimed Orik, and spat on the floor. "They are Vargrimstn, warriors who have disgraced themselves and are now clanless. No one deals with such filth unless they are engaged in villainy themselves and do not wish others to know of it. And so it was with those three. They took their orders directly from Grimstborith Vermund of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin."

"There is no doubt?"

Orik shook his head. "There is no doubt; it is Az Sweldn rak Anhuin who tried to kill you, Eragon. We will probably never know if any other clans joined them in the attempt, but if we expose Az Sweldn rak Anhuin's treachery, it will force everyone else who might have been involved in the plot to disparage their former confederates; to abandon, or at least delay, further attacks on Durgrimst Ingeitum; and, if this is handled properly, to give me their vote for king."

An image flashed in Eragon's mind of the prismatic blade emerging from the back of Kvistor's neck and of the dwarf's agonized expression as he had fallen to the floor, dying. "How will we punish Az Sweldn rak Anhuin for this crime? Should we kill Vermund?"

"Ah, leave that to me," said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose. "I have a plan. But we must tread carefully, for this is a situation of the utmost delicacy. Such a betrayal has not occurred in many long years. As an outsider, you cannot know how abhorrent we find it that one of our own should attack a guest. You being the only free Rider left to oppose Galbatorix only worsens the offense. Further bloodshed may yet be necessary, but at the moment, it would only bring about another clan war."

"A clan war might be the only way to deal with Az Sweldn rak Anhuin," Eragon pointed out.

"I think not, but if I am mistaken and war is unavoidable, we must ensure it is a war between the rest of the clans and Az Sweldn rak Anhuin. That would not be so bad. Together, we could crush them inside of a week. A war with the clans split into two or three factions, however, would destroy our country. It is crucial, then, that before we draw our swords, we convince the other clans of what Az Sweldn rak Anhuin has done. Toward that end, will you allow magicians from different clans to examine your memories of the attack so they may see it happened as we shall say it did and that we did not stage it for our own benefit?"

Eragon hesitated, reluctant to open his mind to strangers, then nodded toward the three dwarves stacked on top of one another. "What about them? Won't their memories be enough to convince the clans of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin's guilt?"

Orik grimaced. "They ought to be, but in order to be thorough, the clan chiefs will insist upon verifying their memories against yours, and if you refuse, Az Sweldn rak Anhuin will claim we are hiding something from the clanmeet and that our accusations are nothing more than slanderous fiction."

"Very well," said Eragon. "If I must, I must. But if any of the magicians stray where they are not supposed to, even if by accident, I will have no choice but to burn what they have seen out of their minds. There are some things I cannot allow to become common knowledge."

Nodding, Orik said, "Aye, I can think of at least one three-legged piece of information that would cause us some consternation if it were to be trumpeted throughout the land, eh? I am sure the clan chiefs will accept your conditions-for they all have secrets of their own they would not want bandied about-just as I am sure they will order their magicians to proceed, regardless of the danger. This attack has the potential to incite such turmoil among our race, the grimstborithn will feel compelled to determine the truth about it, though it may cost them their most skilled spellcasters."

Drawing himself upright then, to the full extent of his limited height, Orik ordered the prisoners removed from the ornate entryway and dismissed all of his va.s.sals, save for Eragon and a contingent of twenty-six of his finest warriors. With a graceful flourish, Orik grasped Eragon's left elbow and conducted him toward the inner rooms of his chambers. "Tonight you must remain here, with me, where Az Sweldn rak Anhuin will not dare to strike."

"If you intend to sleep," said Eragon, "I must warn you, I cannot rest, not tonight. My blood still churns from the tumult of the fight, and my thoughts are likewise uneasy."

Orik replied, "Rest or not as you will; you shall not disturb my slumber, for I shall pull a thick woolen cap low over my eyes. I urge you to try and calm yourself, however-perhaps with some of the techniques the elves taught you-and recover what strength you may. The new day is already upon us, and but a few hours remain until the clanmeet shall be a.s.sembled. We should both be as fresh as possible for what is to come. What we do and say today shall determine the ultimate fate of mine people, mine country, and the rest of Alagaesia. . . . Ah, do not look so grim about the mouth! Think of this instead: whether success or failure awaits us, and I surely hope we prevail, our names shall be remembered until the end of time for how we comport ourselves at this clanmeet. That at least is an accomplishment to fill your belly with pride! The G.o.ds are fickle, and the only immortality we can count on is that which we win through our deeds. Fame or infamy, either one is preferable to being forgotten when you have pa.s.sed from this realm."

Later that night, in the dead hours before morning, Eragon's thoughts wandered as he sat slumped within the embrace of the padded arms of a dwarf couch, and the frame of his consciousness dissolved into the disordered fantasy of his waking dreams. Yet conscious of the mosaic of colored stones mounted upon the wall opposite him, he also beheld, as if a glowing scrim draped over the mosaic, scenes of his life in Palancar Valley before momentous and b.l.o.o.d.y fate had intervened in his existence. The scenes diverged from established fact, however, and immersed him in imaginary situations constructed piecemeal from fragments of what had actually been. In the last few moments before he roused himself from his stupor, his vision flickered and the images acquired a sense of heightened reality.

He was standing in Horst's workshop, the doors of which hung open, loose upon their hinges, like an idiot's slackjaw grin. Outside was a starless night, and the all-consuming darkness seemed to press against the edges of the dull red light cast by the coals, as if eager to devour everything within the scope of that ruddy sphere. Next to the forge, Horst loomed like a giant, the shifting shadows upon his face and beard fearsome to behold. His burly arm rose and fell, and a bell-like clang shivered the air as the hammer he wielded struck the end of a yellow-glowing bar of steel. A burst of sparks extinguished itself on the ground. Four more times the smith smote the metal; then he lifted the bar from his anvil and plunged it into a barrel of oil. Wraithlike flames, blue and gossamer, flickered across the surface of the oil and then vanished with small shrieks of fury. Removing the bar from the barrel, Horst turned toward Eragon and frowned at him. He said, "Why have you come here, Eragon?"

"I need a Dragon Rider's sword."

"Begone with you. I have no time to forge you a Rider's sword. Cannot you see I am working on a pothook for Elain? She must have it for the battle. Are you alone?" Cannot you see I am working on a pothook for Elain? She must have it for the battle. Are you alone?"

"I do not know."

"Where is your father? Where is your mother?"

"I do not know."

Then a new voice sounded, a well-polished voice of strength and power, and it said, "Good smith, he is not alone. He came with me."

"And who might you be?" demanded Horst.

"I am his father."

Between the gaping doors, a huge figure rimmed with pale light emerged from the clotted darkness and stood upon the threshold of the workshop. A red cape billowed from shoulders wider than a Kull's. In the man's left hand gleamed Zar'roc, sharp as pain. Through the slits of his brightly polished helm, his blue eyes bored into Eragon, pinning him into place, like an arrow through a rabbit. He lifted his free hand and held it out toward Eragon. "My son, come with me. Together, we can destroy the Varden, kill Galbatorix, and conquer all of Alagaesia. But give me your heart, and we shall be invincible.

"Give me your heart, my son."

With a strangled exclamation, Eragon leaped out of the couch and stood staring at the floor, his fists clenched, his chest heaving. Orik's guards gave him inquisitive glances, but he ignored them, too upset to explain his outburst.

The hour was still early, so after a time, Eragon settled back onto the couch, but thereafter, he remained alert and did not allow himself to sink into the land of dreams, for fear of what manifestations might torment him.

Eragon stood with his back to the wall, his hand on the pommel of his dwarf sword, as he watched the various clan chiefs file into the round conference room buried beneath Tronjheim. He kept an especially close eye on Vermund, the grimstborith of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin, but if the purple-veiled dwarf was surprised to see Eragon alive and well, he did not show it.

Eragon felt Orik's boot nudge his own. Without looking away from Vermund, Eragon leaned over toward Orik and heard him whisper, "Remember, to the left and three doorways down," referring to the place where Orik had stationed a hundred of his warriors without the other clan chiefs knowing.

Whispering as well, Eragon said, "If blood is shed, should I seize the opportunity to kill that snake, Vermund?"

"Unless he is attempting the same with you or me, please do not." A low chuckle emanated from Orik. "It would hardly endear endear you to the other grimstborithn. . . . Ah, I must go now. Pray to Sindri for luck, would you? We are about to venture into a lava field none have dared cross before." you to the other grimstborithn. . . . Ah, I must go now. Pray to Sindri for luck, would you? We are about to venture into a lava field none have dared cross before."

And Eragon prayed.

When all of the clan chiefs were seated around the table in the center of the room, those watching from the perimeter, including Eragon, took their own seats from among the ring of chairs set against the curving wall. Eragon did not relax into his, however, as many of the dwarves did, but sat upon the edge, ready to fight at the slightest hint of danger.

As Gannel, the black-eyed warrior-priest of Durgrimst Quan, rose from the table and began to speak in Dwarvish, Hundfast sidled closer to Eragon's right side and murmured a continuous translation. The dwarf said, "Greetings again, mine fellow clan chiefs. But whether 'tis well met or not, I am undecided, for certain disturbing rumors-rumors of rumors, if truth be told-have reached mine ears. I have no information beyond these vague and worrisome mutterings, nor proof upon which to found an accusation of misdeeds. However, as today is mine day to preside over this, our congregation, I propose that we delay our most serious debates for the moment, and if you are agreeable, allow me to pose a few questions to the meet."

The clan chiefs muttered among themselves, and then iorunn, bright, dimpling iorunn, said, "I have no objection, Grimstborith Gannel. You have aroused mine curiosity with these cryptic insinuations. Let us hear what questions you have."

"Aye, let us hear them," said Nado.

"Let us hear them," agreed Manndrath and all the rest of the clan chiefs, including Vermund.

Having received the permission he sought, Gannel rested his knuckles upon the table and was silent for a span, garnering the attention of everyone in the room. Then he spoke. "Yesterday, while we were lunching in our chosen places of repast, knurlan throughout the tunnels underneath the southern quadrant of Tronjheim heard a noise. Reports of its loudness differ, but that so many noticed it over so large an area proves that it was no small disturbance. Like you, I received the usual warnings of a possible cave-in. What you may not be aware of, however, is that just two hours past-"

Hundfast hesitated, and quickly whispered, "The word is difficult to render in this tongue. Runners-of-the-tunnels, Runners-of-the-tunnels, I think." And then he resumed translating as before: I think." And then he resumed translating as before: "-runners-of-the-tunnels discovered evidence of a mighty fight within one of the ancient tunnels that our famed forefather, Korgan Longbeard, excavated. The floor was painted with blood, the walls were dark with soot from a lantern a warrior of careless blade did breach, cracks split the surrounding stone, and sprawled throughout were seven charred and mangled bodies, with signs that others may have been removed. Nor were these the remnants of some obscure skirmish from the Battle of Farthen Dur. No! For the blood had yet to dry, the soot was soft, the cracks were most obviously freshly broken, and, I am told, the residue of powerful magics could still be detected within the area. Even now, several of our most accomplished spellcasters are attempting to reconstruct a pictorial facsimile of what occurred, but they have little hope of success, as those involved were wrapped about with such devious enchantments. So my first question for the meet is this: do any of you possess further knowledge of this mysterious action?"

As Gannel concluded his speech, Eragon tensed his legs, ready to spring up if the purple-veiled dwarves of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin should reach for their blades.

Orik cleared his throat and said, "I believe that I can satisfy some of your curiosity upon that point, Gannel. However, since my answer must of necessity be a lengthy one, I suggest you ask your other questions before I begin."

A frown darkened Gannel's brow. Rapping his knuckles against the table, he said, "Very well. . . . In what is undoubtedly related to the clash of arms in Korgan's tunnels, I have had reports of numerous knurlan moving through Tronjheim and, with furtive intent, gathering here and there into large bands of armed men. My agents were unable to ascertain the clan of the warriors, but that any of this council should attempt to surrept.i.tiously marshal their forces whilst we are engaged in a meet to decide who should succeed King Hrothgar suggests motives of the darkest kind. So my second question for the meet is this: who is responsible for this ill-thought-of maneuvering? And if none are willing to admit their misconduct, I move most strongly that we order all warriors, regardless of their clan, expelled from Tronjheim for the duration of the meet and that we immediately appoint a reader-of-law to investigate these doings and determine whom we should censure."

Gannel's revelation, question, and subsequent proposal aroused a flurry of heated conversation among the clan chiefs, with the dwarves hurling accusations, denials, and counteraccusations at each other with increasing vitriol, until, at last, when an infuriated Thordris was shouting at a red-faced Galdhiem, Orik cleared his throat again, causing everyone to stop and stare at him.

In a mild tone, Orik said, "This too I believe I can explain to you, Gannel, at least in part. I cannot speak to the activities of the other clans, but several hundred of the warriors who have been hurrying through the servants' halls in Tronjheim have been of Durgrimst Ingeitum. This I freely admit."

All was silent until iorunn said, "And what explanation have you for this belligerent behavior, Orik, Thrifk's son?"

"As I said before, fair iorunn, my answer must of necessity be a lengthy one, so if you, Gannel, have any other questions to ask, I suggest you proceed forthwith."

Gannel's frown deepened until his projecting eyebrows nearly touched. He said, "I will withhold mine other questions for the time being, for they all pertain to those I have already put to the meet, and it seems we must wait upon your pleasure to learn any more of those subjects. However, since you are involved fist and foot with these doubtful activities, a new question has occurred to me that I would ask of you specifically, Grimstborith Orik. For what reason did you desert yesterday's meet? And let me warn you, I will brook no evasions. You have already intimated you have knowledge of these affairs. Well, time is for you to provide a full accounting of yourself, Grimstborith Orik."

Orik stood even as Gannel sat, and he said, "It shall be mine pleasure."

Lowering his bearded chin until it rested upon his chest, Orik paused for a brief span and then began to speak in a sonorous voice, but he did not begin as Eragon had expected, nor, Eragon surmised, as the rest of the congregation had expected. Instead of describing the attempt on Eragon's life, and thus explaining why he had terminated the previous clanmeet prematurely, Orik commenced by recounting how, at the dawn of history, the race of dwarves had migrated from the once-verdant fields of the Hadarac Desert to the Beor Mountains, where they had excavated their uncounted miles of tunnels, built their magnificent cities both above and below the ground, and waged l.u.s.ty war between their various factions, as well as with the dragons, whom, for thousands of years, the dwarves had regarded with a combination of hate, fear, and reluctant awe.

Then Orik spoke of the elves' arrival in Alagaesia and of how the elves had fought with the dragons until they nearly destroyed each other and of how, as a result, the two races had agreed to create the Dragon Riders to maintain the peace thereafter.

"And what was our response when we learned of their intentions?" demanded Orik, his voice ringing loud in the chamber. "Did we ask to be included in their pact? Did we aspire to share in the power that would be the Dragon Riders'? No! We clung to our old ways, our old hatreds, and we rejected the very thought of bonding with the dragons or allowing anyone outside our realm to police us. To preserve our authority, we sacrificed our future, for I am convinced that if some of the Dragon Riders had been knurlan, Galbatorix might have never risen to power. Even if I am wrong-and I mean not to belittle Eragon, who has proven himself a fine Rider-the dragon Saphira might have hatched for one of our race and not a human. And then what glory might have been ours?

"Instead, our importance in Alagaesia has diminished ever since Queen Tarmunora and Eragon's namesake made peace with the dragons. At first our lessened status was not so bitter a draught to swallow, and often it was easier to deny than to accept. But then came the Urgals, and then the humans, and the elves amended their spells so humans might be Riders as well. And then did we seek to be included in their accord, as well we might have . . . as was our right?" Orik shook his head. "Our pride would not allow it. Why should we, the oldest race in the land, beg the elves for the favor of their magic? We did not need to chain our fate to the dragons' in order to save our race from destruction, as had the elves and humans. We ignored, of course, the battles we waged among ourselves. Those, we reasoned, were private affairs and of no concern to anyone else."

The listening clan chiefs stirred. Many of them bore expressions of dissatisfaction at Orik's criticism, whereas the rest seemed more receptive to his comments and were thoughtful of countenance.

Orik continued: "While the Riders watched over Alagaesia, we enjoyed the greatest period of prosperity ever recorded in the annals of our realm. We flourished as never before, and yet we had no share in the cause of it: the Dragon Riders. When the Riders fell, our fortunes faltered, but again we had no share in the cause of it: the Riders. Neither state of affairs is, I deem, fitting for a race of our stature. We are not a country of va.s.sals subject to the whims of foreign masters. Nor should those who are not the descendants of Odgar and Hlordis dictate our fate."

This line of reasoning was more to the liking of the clan chiefs; they nodded and smiled, and Havard even clapped a few times at the final line.

"Consider now our present era," said Orik. "Galbatorix is ascendant, and every race fights to remain free of his rule. He has grown so powerful, the only reason we are not already his slaves is that, so far, he has not chosen to fly out upon his black dragon and attack us directly. If he did, we would fall before him like saplings before an avalanche. Fortunately, he seems content to wait for us to slaughter our way to the gates of his citadel in Uru'baen. Now, I remind you that before Eragon and Saphira turned up wet and bedraggled on our front doorstep, with a hundred yammering Kull hard upon their heels, our only hope of defeating Galbatorix was that someday, somewhere, Saphira would hatch for her chosen Rider and that this unknown person would, perhaps, perchance, if we were luckier than every gambler who has ever won a toss of dice, be able to overthrow Galbatorix. Hope? Ha! We did not even have hope; we had a hope of a hope. When Eragon first presented himself, many of us were dismayed by his appearance, myself included. 'He is but a boy,' we said. 'It would have been better if he had been an elf,' we said. But lo, he has shown himself to be the embodiment of our every hope! He slew Durza, and so allowed us to save our most beloved city, Tronjheim. His dragon, Saphira, has promised to restore the Star Rose to its former glory. During the Battle of the Burning Plains, he drove off Murtagh and Thorn, and so allowed us to win the day. And look! He even now wears the semblance of an elf, and through their strange magics, he has acquired their speed and their strength."

Orik raised a finger for emphasis. "Moreover, King Hrothgar, in his wisdom, did what no other king or grimstborith has ever done; he offered to adopt Eragon into Durgrimst Ingeitum and to make him a member of his own family. Eragon was under no obligation to accept this offer. Indeed, he was aware that many of the families of the Ingeitum objected to it and that, in general, many knurlan would not regard it with favor. Yet in spite of that discouragement, and in spite of the fact that he was already bound in fealty to Nasuada, Eragon accepted Hrothgar's gift, knowing full well that it would only make his life harder. As he has told me himself, Eragon swore the hall-oath upon the Heart of Stone because of the sense of obligation he feels toward all the races of Alagaesia, and especially toward us, since we, by the actions of Hrothgar, showed him and Saphira such kindness. Because of Hrothgar's genius, the last free Rider of Alagaesia, and our one and only hope against Galbatorix, freely chose to become a knurla in all but blood. Since then, Eragon has abided by our laws and traditions to the best of his knowledge, and he has sought to learn ever more about our culture so that he may honor the true meaning of his oath. When Hrothgar fell, struck down by the traitor Murtagh, Eragon swore to me upon every stone in Alagaesia, and also as a member of Durgrimst Ingeitum, that he would strive to avenge Hrothgar's death. He has given me the respect and obedience I am due as grimstborith, and I am proud to regard him as mine foster brother."

Eragon glanced downward, his cheeks and the tips of his ears burning. He wished Orik were not so free with his praise; it would only make his position harder to maintain in the future.

Sweeping his arms out to include the other clan chiefs, Orik exclaimed, "Everything we could have ever wished for in a Dragon Rider we have received in Eragon! He exists! He is powerful! And he has embraced our people as no other Dragon Rider ever has!" Then Orik lowered his arms and, with them, the volume of his voice, until Eragon had to strain to hear his words. "How have we responded to his friendship, though? In the main, with sneers and slights and surly resentment. We are an ungrateful race, I say, and our memories are too long for our own good. . . . There are even those who have become so filled with festering hatred, they have turned to violence to slake the thirst of their anger. Perhaps they still believe they are doing what is best for our people, but if so, then their minds are as moldy as a lump of year-old cheese. Otherwise, why would they try to kill Eragon?"

The listening clan chiefs became perfectly still, their eyes riveted to Orik's face. So intense was their concentration, the corpulent grimstborith, Freowin, had set aside his carving of a raven and folded his hands on top of his ample belly, appearing for all the world like one of the dwarves' statues.