"Come on!" called Roran. "Hurry up!"

Eragon! exclaimed Saphira. exclaimed Saphira.

Eragon shook his head. "No. I'm staying here."

"You-" Roran started to say, but a ferocious growl from Saphira interrupted him. She lashed her tail against the side of the cave and raked the floor with her talons, so that bone and stone squealed in what sounded like mortal agony.

"Listen!" shouted Eragon. "One of the Ra'zac is still on the loose. And think what else might be in Helgrind: scrolls, potions, information about the Empire's activities-things that can help us! The Ra'zac may even have eggs of theirs stored here. If they do, I have to destroy them before Galbatorix can claim them for his own."

To Saphira, Eragon also said, I can't kill Sloan, I can't let Roran or Katrina see him, and I can't allow him to starve to death in his cell or Galbatorix's men to recapture him. I'm sorry, but I have to deal with Sloan on my own I can't kill Sloan, I can't let Roran or Katrina see him, and I can't allow him to starve to death in his cell or Galbatorix's men to recapture him. I'm sorry, but I have to deal with Sloan on my own.

"How will you get out of the Empire?" demanded Roran.

"I'll run. I'm as fast as an elf now, you know."

The tip of Saphira's tail twitched. That was the only warning Eragon had before she leaped toward him, extending one of her glittering paws. He fled, dashing into the tunnel a fraction of a second before Saphira's foot pa.s.sed through the s.p.a.ce where he had been.

Saphira skidded to a stop in front of the tunnel and roared with frustration that she was unable to follow him into the narrow enclosure. Her bulk blocked most of the light. The stone shook around Eragon as she tore at the entrance with her claws and teeth, breaking off thick chunks. Her feral snarls and the sight of her lunging muzzle, filled with teeth as long as his forearm, sent a jolt of fear through Eragon. He understood then how a rabbit must feel when it cowers in its den while a wolf digs after it.

"Ganga!" he shouted.

No! Saphira placed her head on the ground and uttered a mournful keen, her eyes large and pitiful. Saphira placed her head on the ground and uttered a mournful keen, her eyes large and pitiful.

"Ganga! I love you, Saphira, but you have to go."

She retreated several yards from the tunnel and snuffled at him, mewling like a cat. Little one Little one . . . . . .

Eragon hated to make her unhappy, and he hated to send her away; it felt as if he were tearing himself apart. Saphira's misery flowed across their mental link and, coupled with his own anguish, almost paralyzed him. Somehow he mustered the nerve to say, "Ganga! And don't come back for me or send anyone else for me. I'll be fine. Ganga! Ganga!"

Saphira howled with frustration and then reluctantly walked to the mouth of the cave. From his place on her saddle, Roran said, "Eragon, come on! Don't be daft. You're too important to risk-"

A combination of noise and motion obscured the rest of his sentence as Saphira launched herself out of the cave. In the clear sky beyond, her scales sparkled like a mult.i.tude of brilliant blue diamonds. She was, Eragon thought, magnificent: proud, n.o.ble, and more beautiful than any other living creature. No stag or lion could compete with the majesty of a dragon in flight. She said, A week: that is how long I shall wait. Then I shall return for you, Eragon, even if I must fight my way past Thorn, Shruikan, and a thousand magicians A week: that is how long I shall wait. Then I shall return for you, Eragon, even if I must fight my way past Thorn, Shruikan, and a thousand magicians.

Eragon stood there until she dwindled from sight and he could no longer touch her mind. Then, his heart heavy as lead, he squared his shoulders and turned away from the sun and all things bright and living and once more descended into the tunnels of shadow.

RIDER AND RA'ZAC

Eragon sat bathed in the heatless radiance from his crimson werelight in the hall lined with cells near the center of Helgrind. His staff lay across his lap.

The rock reflected his voice as he repeated a phrase in the ancient language over and over again. It was not magic, but rather a message to the remaining Ra'zac. What he said meant this: "Come, O thou eater of men's flesh, let us end this fight of ours. You are hurt, and I am weary. Your companions are dead, and I am alone. We are a fit match. I promise that I shall not use gramarye against you, nor hurt or trap you with spells I have already cast. Come, O thou eater of men's flesh, let us end this fight of ours. . . ."

The time during which he spoke seemed endless: a neverwhen in a ghastly tinted chamber that remained unchanged through an eternity of cycling words whose order and significance ceased to matter to him. After a time, his clamoring thoughts fell silent, and a strange calm crept over him.

He paused with his mouth open, then closed it, watchful.

Thirty feet in front of him stood the Ra'zac. Blood dripped from the hem of the creature's ragged robes. "My ma.s.sster does not want me to kill you," it hissed.

"But that does not matter to you now."

"No. If I fall to your staff, let Galbatorix deal with you as he will. He has more heartsss than you do."

Eragon laughed. "Hearts? I am the champion of the people, not him."

"Foolish boy." The Ra'zac c.o.c.ked its head slightly, looking past him at the corpse of the other Ra'zac farther up the tunnel. "She was my hatchmate. You have become ssstrong since we firssst met, Shadeslayer."

"It was that or die."

"Will you make a pact with me, Shadeslayer?"

"What kind of a pact?"

"I am the la.s.sst of my race, Shadeslayer. We are ancient, and I would not have us forgotten. Would you, in your songsss and in your hissstories, remind your fellow humans of the terror we inssspired in your kind? . . . Remember us as fear fear!"

"Why should I do that for you?"

Tucking its beak against its narrow chest, the Ra'zac clucked and chittered to itself for several moments. "Because," it said, "I will tell you sssomething secret, yesss I will."

"Then tell me."

"Give me your word firssst, lest you trick me."

"No. Tell me, and then I will decide whether or not to agree."

Over a minute pa.s.sed, and neither of them moved, although Eragon kept his muscles taut and ready in expectation of a surprise attack. After another squall of sharp clicks, the Ra'zac said, "He has almossst found the name. name."

"Who has?"

"Galbatorix."

"The name of what?"

The Ra'zac hissed with frustration. "I cannot tell you! The name name! The true name name!"

"You have to give me more information than that."

"I cannot!"

"Then we have no pact."

"Curssse you, Rider! I curssse you! May you find no roossst nor den nor peace of mind in thisss land of yours. May you leave Alagaesia and never return!"

The nape of Eragon's neck p.r.i.c.kled with the cold touch of dread. In his mind, he again heard the words of Angela the herbalist when she had cast her dragon bones for him and told his fortune and predicted that selfsame fate.

A mare's tail of blood separated Eragon from his enemy as the Ra'zac swept back its sodden cloak, revealing a bow that it held with an arrow already fit to the string. Lifting and drawing the weapon, the Ra'zac loosed the bolt in the direction of Eragon's chest.

Eragon batted the shaft aside with his staff.

As if this attempt were nothing more than a preliminary gesture that custom dictated they observe before proceeding with their actual confrontation, the Ra'zac stooped, placed the bow on the floor, then straightened its cowl and slowly and deliberately pulled its leaf-bladed sword from underneath its robes. While it did, Eragon rose to his feet and took a shoulder-wide stance, his hands tight on the staff.

They lunged toward each other. The Ra'zac attempted to cleave Eragon from collarbone to hip, but Eragon twisted and stepped past the blow. Jamming the end of the staff upward, he drove its metal spike underneath the Ra'zac's beak and through the plates that protected the creature's throat.

The Ra'zac shuddered once and then collapsed.

Eragon stared at his most hated foe, stared at its lidless black eyes, and suddenly he went weak at the knees and retched against the wall of the corridor. Wiping his mouth, he yanked the staff free and whispered, "For our father. For our home. For Carvahall. For Brom. . . . I have had my fill of vengeance. May you rot here forever, Ra'zac."

Going to the appropriate cell, Eragon retrieved Sloan-who was still deep in his enchanted sleep-slung the butcher over his shoulder, and then began to retrace his steps back to the main cave of Helgrind. Along the way, he often lowered Sloan to the floor and left him to explore a chamber or byway that he had not visited before. In them he discovered many evil instruments, including four metal flasks of Seithr oil, which he promptly destroyed so that no one else could use the flesh-eating acid to further their malicious plans.

Hot sunlight stung Eragon's cheeks when he stumbled out of the network of tunnels. Holding his breath, he hurried past the dead Lethrblaka and went to the edge of the vast cave, where he gazed down the precipitous side of Helgrind at the hills far below. To the west, he saw a pillar of orange dust billowing above the lane that connected Helgrind to Dras-Leona, marking the approach of a group of hors.e.m.e.n.

His right side was burning from supporting Sloan's weight, so Eragon shifted the butcher onto his other shoulder. He blinked away the beads of sweat that clung to his eyelashes as he struggled to solve the problem of how he was supposed to transport Sloan and himself five thousandsome feet to the ground.

"It's almost a mile down," he murmured. "If there were a path, I could easily walk that distance, even with Sloan. So I must have the strength to lower us with magic. . . . Yes, but what you can do over a length of time may be too taxing to accomplish all at once without killing yourself. As Oromis said, the body cannot convert its stockpile of fuel into energy fast enough to sustain most spells for more than a few seconds. I only have a certain amount of power available at any given moment, and once it's gone, I have to wait until I recover. . . . And talking to myself isn't getting me anywhere."

Securing his hold on Sloan, Eragon fixed his eyes on a narrow ledge about a hundred feet below. This is going to hurt, This is going to hurt, he thought, preparing himself for the attempt. Then he barked, "Audr!" he thought, preparing himself for the attempt. Then he barked, "Audr!"

Eragon felt himself rise several inches above the floor of the cave. "Fram," he said, and the spell propelled him away from Helgrind and into open s.p.a.ce, where he hung unsupported, like a cloud drifting in the sky. Accustomed as he was to flying with Saphira, the sight of nothing but thin air underneath his feet still caused him unease.

By manipulating the flow of magic, Eragon quickly descended from the Ra'zac's lair-which the insubstantial wall of stone once again hid-to the ledge. His boot slipped on a loose piece of rock as he alighted. For a handful of breathless seconds, he flailed, searching for solid footing but unable to look down, as tilting his head could send him toppling forward. He yelped as his left leg went off the ledge and he began to fall. Before he could resort to magic to save himself, he came to an abrupt halt as his left foot wedged itself in a crevice. The edges of the rift dug into his calf behind his greave, but he did not mind, for it held him in place.

Eragon leaned his back against Helgrind, using it to help him prop up Sloan's limp body. "That wasn't too bad," he observed. The effort had cost him, but not so much that he was unable to continue. "I can do this," he said. He gulped fresh air into his lungs, waiting for his racing heart to slow; he felt as if he had sprinted a score of yards while carrying Sloan. "I can do this. . . ."

The approaching riders caught his eye again. They were noticeably closer than before and galloping across the dry land at a pace that worried him. It's a race between them and me, It's a race between them and me, he realized. he realized. I have to escape before they reach Helgrind. There are sure to be magicians among them, and I'm in no fit condition to duel Galbatorix's spellcasters I have to escape before they reach Helgrind. There are sure to be magicians among them, and I'm in no fit condition to duel Galbatorix's spellcasters. Glancing over at Sloan's face, he said, "Perhaps you can help me a bit, eh? It's the least you can do, considering I'm risking death and worse for you." The sleeping butcher rolled his head, lost in the world of dreams.

With a grunt, Eragon pushed himself off Helgrind. Again he said, "Audr," and again he became airborne. This time he relied upon Sloan's strength-meager as it was-as well as his own. Together they sank like two strange birds along Helgrind's rugged flank toward another ledge whose width promised safe haven.

In such a manner Eragon orchestrated their downward climb. He did not proceed in a straight line, but rather angled off to his right, so that they curved around Helgrind and the ma.s.s of blocky stone hid him and Sloan from the hors.e.m.e.n.

The closer they got to the ground, the slower they went. A crushing fatigue overcame Eragon, reducing the distance he was able to traverse in a single stretch and making it increasingly difficult for him to recuperate during the pauses between his bursts of exertion. Even lifting a finger became a task that he found irritating in the extreme, as well as one that was almost unbearably laborious. Drowsiness m.u.f.fled him in its warm folds and dulled his thoughts and feelings until the hardest of rocks seemed as soft as pillows to his aching muscles.

When he finally dropped onto the sun-baked soil-too weak to keep Sloan and himself from ramming into the dirt-Eragon lay with his arms folded at odd angles underneath his chest and stared with half-lidded eyes into the yellow flecks of citrine embedded within the small rock an inch or two from his nose. Sloan weighed on his back like a pile of iron ingots. Air seeped from Eragon's lungs, but none seemed to return. His vision darkened as if a cloud had covered the sun. A deadly lull separated each beat of his heart, and the throb, when it came, was no more than a faint flutter.

Eragon was no longer capable of coherent thought, but somewhere in the back of his brain he was aware that he was about to die. It did not frighten him; to the contrary, the prospect comforted him, for he was tired beyond belief, and death would free him from the battered sh.e.l.l of his flesh and allow him to rest for all of eternity.

From above and behind his head, there came a b.u.mblebee as big as his thumb. It circled his ear, then hovered by the rock, probing the nodes of citrine, which were the same bright yellow as the fieldstars that bloomed among the hills. The b.u.mblebee's mane glowed in the morning light-each hair sharp and distinct to Eragon-and its blurred wings generated a gentle bombilation, like a tattoo played on a drum. Pollen powdered the bristles on its legs.

The b.u.mblebee was so vibrant, so alive, and so beautiful, its presence renewed Eragon's will to survive. A world that contained a creature as amazing as that b.u.mblebee was a world he wanted to live in.

By sheer force of will, he pushed his left hand free of his chest and grasped the woody stem of a nearby shrub. Like a leech or a tick or some other parasite, he extracted the life from the plant, leaving it limp and brown. The subsequent rush of energy that coursed through Eragon sharpened his wits. Now he was scared; having regained his desire to continue existing, he found nothing but terror in the blackness beyond.

Dragging himself forward, he seized another shrub and transferred its vitality into his body, then a third shrub and a fourth shrub, and so on until he once again possessed the full measure of his strength. He stood and looked back at the trail of brown plants that stretched out behind him; a bitter taste filled his mouth as he saw what he had wrought.

Eragon knew that he had been careless with the magic and that his reckless behavior would have doomed the Varden to certain defeat if he had died. In hindsight, his stupidity made him wince. Brom would box my ears for getting into this mess, Brom would box my ears for getting into this mess, he thought. he thought.

Returning to Sloan, Eragon hoisted the gaunt butcher off the ground. Then he turned east and loped away from Helgrind and into the concealment of a draw. Ten minutes later, when he paused to check for pursuers, he saw a cloud of dirt swirling at the base of Helgrind, which he took to mean that the hors.e.m.e.n had arrived at the dark tower of stone.

He smiled. Galbatorix's minions were too far away for any lesser magicians among their ranks to detect his or Sloan's minds. By the time they discover the Ra'zac's bodies, By the time they discover the Ra'zac's bodies, he thought, he thought, I shall have run a league or more. I doubt they will be able to find me then. Besides, they will be searching for a dragon and her Rider, not a man traveling on foot I shall have run a league or more. I doubt they will be able to find me then. Besides, they will be searching for a dragon and her Rider, not a man traveling on foot.

Satisfied that he did not have to worry about an imminent attack, Eragon resumed his previous pace: a steady, effortless stride that he could maintain for the entire day.

Above him, the sun gleamed gold and white. Before him, trackless wilderness extended for many leagues before lapping against the outbuildings of some village. And in his heart, a new joy and hope flared.

At last the Ra'zac were dead!

At last his quest for vengeance was complete. At last he had fulfilled his duty to Garrow and to Brom. And at last he had cast off the pall of fear and anger that he had labored beneath ever since the Ra'zac first appeared in Carvahall. Killing them had taken far longer than he expected, but now the deed was done, and a mighty deed it was. He allowed himself to revel in satisfaction over having accomplished such a difficult feat, albeit with a.s.sistance from Roran and Saphira.

Yet, to his surprise, his triumph was bittersweet, tainted by an unexpected sense of loss. His hunt for the Ra'zac had been one of his last ties to his life in Palancar Valley, and he was loath to relinquish that bond, gruesome as it was. Moreover, the task had given him a purpose in life when he had none; it was the reason why he had originally left his home. Without it, a hole gaped inside of him where he had nurtured his hate for the Ra'zac.

That he could mourn the end of such a terrible mission appalled Eragon, and he vowed to avoid making the same mistake twice. I refuse to become so attached to my struggle against the Empire and Murtagh and Galbatorix that I won't want to move on to something else when, and if, the time comes-or, worse, that I'll try to prolong the conflict rather than adapt to whatever happens next. I refuse to become so attached to my struggle against the Empire and Murtagh and Galbatorix that I won't want to move on to something else when, and if, the time comes-or, worse, that I'll try to prolong the conflict rather than adapt to whatever happens next. He chose then to push away his misbegotten regret and to concentrate instead on his relief: relief that he was free of the grim demands of his self-imposed quest and that his only remaining obligations were those born of his current position. He chose then to push away his misbegotten regret and to concentrate instead on his relief: relief that he was free of the grim demands of his self-imposed quest and that his only remaining obligations were those born of his current position.

Elation lightened his steps. With the Ra'zac gone, Eragon felt as if he could finally make a life for himself based not on who he had been but on who he had become: a Dragon Rider.

He smiled at the uneven horizon and laughed as he ran, indifferent as to whether anyone might hear him. His voice rolled up and down the draw, and around him, everything seemed new and beautiful and full of promise.

TO WALK THE LAND ALONE

Eragon's stomach gurgled.

He was lying on his back, legs folded under at the knees-stretching his thighs after running farther and with more weight than he ever had before-when the loud, liquid rumble erupted from his innards.

The sound was so unexpected, Eragon bolted upright, groping for his staff.

Wind whistled across the empty land. The sun had set, and in its absence, everything was blue and purple. Nothing moved, save for the blades of gra.s.s that fluttered and Sloan, whose fingers slowly opened and closed in response to some vision in his enchanted slumber. A bone-biting cold heralded the arrival of true night.

Eragon relaxed and allowed himself a small smile.

His amus.e.m.e.nt soon vanished as he considered the source of his discomfort. Battling the Ra'zac, casting numerous spells, and bearing Sloan upon his shoulders for most of the day had left Eragon so ravenous, he imagined that if he could travel back in time, he could eat the entire feast the dwarves had cooked in his honor during his visit to Tarnag. The memory of how the roast Nagra, the giant boar, had smelled-hot, pungent, seasoned with honey and spices, and dripping with lard-was enough to make his mouth water.

The problem was, he had no supplies. Water was easy enough to come by; he could draw moisture from the soil whenever he wanted. Finding food in that desolate place, however, was not only far more difficult, it presented him with a moral dilemma that he had hoped to avoid.

Oromis had devoted many of his lessons to the various climates and geographic regions that existed throughout Alagaesia. Thus, when Eragon left their camp to investigate the surrounding area, he was able to identify most of the plants he encountered. Few were edible, and of those, none were large or bountiful enough for him to gather a meal for two grown men in a reasonable amount of time. The local animals were sure to have hidden away caches of seeds and fruit, but he had no idea where to begin searching for them. Nor did he think it was likely that a desert mouse would have ama.s.sed more than a few mouthfuls of food.

That left him with two options, neither of which appealed to him. He could-as he had before-drain the energy from the plants and insects around their camp. The price of doing so would be to leave a death-spot upon the earth, a blight where nothing, not even the tiny organisms in the soil, still lived. And while it might keep him and Sloan on their feet, transfusions of energy were far from satisfying, as they did nothing to fill one's stomach.