By beak and bone,
Mine blackened stone
Sees rooks and crooks
And bloody brooks!
“What does that mean?” asked Eragon.
Blagden shrugged and repeated the verse. When Eragon still pressed him for an explanation, the bird ruffled his feathers, appearing displeased, and cackled, “Son and father alike, both as blind as bats.”
“Wait!” exclaimed Eragon, jolting upright. “Do you know my father? Who is he?”
Blagden cackled again. This time he seemed to be laughing.
While two may share two,
And one of two is certainly one,
One might be two.
“A name, Blagden. Give me a name!” When the raven remained silent, Eragon reached out with his mind, intending to wrench the information from the bird’s memories.
Blagden was too wily, however. He deflected Eragon’s probe with a flick of his thoughts. Shrieking “Wyrda!” he darted forward, plucked a bright glass stopper from an inkwell, and sped away with his trophy clutched in his beak. He dove out of sight before Eragon could cast a spell to bring him back.
Eragon’s stomach knotted as he tried to decipher Blagden’s two riddles. The last thing he had expected was to hear his father mentioned in Ellesméra. Finally, he muttered, “That’s it.” I’ll find Blagden later and wring the truth out of him. But right now... I would have to be a half-wit to ignore these portents. He jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs, waking Saphira with his mind and telling her what had transpired during the night. Retrieving his shaving mirror from the wash closet, Eragon sat between Saphira’s two front paws so that she could look over his head and see what he saw.
Arya won’t appreciate it if we intrude on her privacy, warned Saphira.
I have to know if she’s safe.
Saphira accepted that without argument. How will you find her? You said that after her imprisonment, she erected wards that — like your necklace — prevent anyone from scrying her.
If I can scry the people she’s with, I might be able to figure out how Arya is. Concentrating on an image of Nasuada, Eragon passed his hand over the mirror and murmured the traditional phrase, “Dream stare.”
The mirror shimmered and turned white, except for nine people clustered around an invisible table. Of them, Eragon was familiar with Nasuada and the Council of Elders. But he could not identify a strange girl hooded in black who lurked behind Nasuada. This puzzled him, for a magician could only scry things that he had already seen, and Eragon was certain he had never laid eyes upon the girl before. He forgot about her, though, as he noticed that the men, and even Nasuada, were armed for battle.
Let us hear their words, suggested Saphira.
The instant Eragon made the needed alteration to the spell, Nasuada’s voice emanated from the mirror: “... and confusion will destroy us. Our warriors can afford but one commander during this conflict. Decide who it is to be, Orrin, and quickly too.”
Eragon heard a disembodied sigh. “As you wish; the position is yours.”
“But, sir, she is untried!”
“Enough, Irwin,” ordered the king. “She has more experience in war than anyone in Surda. And the Varden are the only force to have defeated one of Galbatorix’s armies. If Nasuada were a Surdan general — which would be peculiar indeed, I admit — you would not hesitate to nominate her for the post. I shall be happy to deal with questions of authority if they arise afterward, for they will mean I’m still on my feet and not lying in a grave. As it is, we are so outnumbered I fear we are doomed unless Hrothgar can reach us before the end of the week. Now, where is that blasted scroll on the supply train?... Ah, thank you, Arya. Three more days without—”
After that the discussion turned to a shortage of bowstrings, which Eragon could glean nothing useful from, so he ended the spell. The mirror cleared, and he found himself staring at his own face.
She lives, he murmured. His relief was overshadowed, though, by the larger meaning of what they had heard.
Saphira looked at him. We are needed.
Aye. Why hasn’t Oromis told us about this? He must know of it.
Maybe he wanted to avoid disrupting our training.
Troubled, Eragon wondered what else of import was happening in Alagaësia that he was unaware of. Roran. With a pang of guilt, Eragon realized that it had been weeks since he last thought of his cousin, and even longer since he scryed him on the way to Ellesméra.
At Eragon’s command, the mirror revealed two figures standing against a pure white background. It took Eragon a long moment to recognize the man on the right as Roran. He was garbed in travel-worn clothes, a hammer was stuck under his belt, a thick beard obscured his face, and he bore a haunted expression that bespoke desperation. To the left was Jeod. The men surged up and down, accompanied by the thunderous crash of waves, which masked anything they said. After a while, Roran turned and walked along what Eragon assumed was the deck of a ship, bringing dozens of other villagers into view.
Where are they, and why is Jeod with them? demanded Eragon, bewildered.
Diverting the magic, he scryed in quick succession Teirm — shocked to see that the city’s wharfs had been destroyed — Therinsford, Garrow’s old farm, and then Carvahall, whereupon Eragon uttered a wounded cry.
The village was gone.
Every building, including Horst’s magnificent house, had been burned to the ground. Carvahall no longer existed except as a sooty blot beside the Anora River. The sole remaining inhabitants were four gray wolves that loped through the wreckage.
The mirror dropped from Eragon’s hand and shattered across the floor. He leaned against Saphira, tears burning in his eyes as he grieved anew for his lost home. Saphira hummed deep in her chest and brushed his arm with the side of her jaw, enveloping him in a warm blanket of sympathy. Take comfort, little one. At least your friends are still alive.
He shuddered and felt a hard core of determination coalesce in his belly. We have remained sequestered from the world for far too long. It’s high time we leave Ellesméra and confront our fate, whatever it may be. For now, Roran must fend for himself, but the Varden... the Varden we can help.
Is it time to fight, Eragon? asked Saphira, an odd note of formality in her voice.
He knew what she meant: Was it time to challenge the Empire head-on, time to kill and rampage to the limit of their considerable abilities, time to unleash every ounce of their rage until Galbatorix lay dead before them? Was it time to commit themselves to a campaign that could take decades to resolve?
It is time.
GIFTS
Eragon packed his belongings in less than five minutes. He took the saddle Oromis had given them, strapped it onto Saphira, then slung his bags over her back and buckled them down.
Saphira tossed her head, nostrils flared, and said, I will wait for you at the field. With a roar, she launched herself from the tree house, unfolding her blue wings in midair, and flew off, skimming the forest canopy.
Quick as an elf, Eragon ran to Tialdarí Hall, where he found Orik sitting in his usual corner, playing a game of Runes. The dwarf greeted him with a hearty slap on the arm. “Eragon! What brings you here at this time of the morn? I thought you’d be off banging swords with Vanir.”
“Saphira and I are leaving,” said Eragon.
Orik stopped with his mouth open, then narrowed his eyes, going serious. “You’ve had news?”