Eragon scowled, gripping the book and feeling as if he wanted to tear it apart. “This can’t be everything. There has to be some other piece of information that you’ve forgotten.”
Many, but none, I think, related to this.
“In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.”
I found you, didn’t I?
“That’s not funny,” growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.”
I do not.
“Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum. We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.”
Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where none exists. Read the book.
“We’ll be at Urû’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.”
Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault.
“I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think! You have to know something else!”
Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And—
“You have to, or we’re doomed!”
Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his consciousness had been stilled or removed.
Eragon froze, uncertain.
Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second passage thereon.
Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to their previous position. What? he said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that?
“What did you just say?”
I said that I do not know anything else. And that—
“No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.”
Do not toy with me. I said no such thing.
“You did.”
Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider.
So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said.
“What do you think it means?”
It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven.
Eragon hesitated, then nodded and began to flip through the pages. As he did, he remembered the chapter in question; it was the one devoted to the aftermath of the Riders’ secession from the elves, following the elves’ brief war with the humans. Eragon had read the beginning of the section, but it had seemed to be nothing more than a dry discussion of treaties and negotiations, so he had left it for another time.
Soon enough, he arrived at the proper page. Tracing the lines of runes with the tip of his finger, Eragon slowly read out loud:
… The island is remarkably temperate compared with areas of the mainland at the same latitude. Summers are often cool and rainy, but then the winters are mild and tend not to assume the brutal cold of the northern reaches of the Spine, which means that crops could be grown for a goodly portion of the year. By all accounts, the soil is rich and fertile—the one benefit of the fire mountains that are known to erupt from time to time and cover the island with a thick layer of ash—and the forests were full of large game such as the dragons preferred to hunt, including many species not found elsewhere in Alagaësia.
Eragon paused. “None of this seems relevant.”
Keep reading.
Frowning, Eragon continued on to the next paragraph:
It was there, in the great cauldron at the center of Vroengard, that the Riders built their far-famed city, Doru Araeba.
Doru Araeba! The only city in history designed to house dragons as well as elves and humans. Doru Araeba! A place of magic and learning and ancient mysteries. Doru Araeba! The very name seems to hum with excitement. Never was there a city like it before, and never shall there be again, for now it is lost, destroyed—ground to dust by the usurper Galbatorix.
The buildings were constructed in the elvish style—with some influence from human Riders in later years—but out of stone, not wood; wooden buildings, as must be obvious to the reader, fare poorly around creatures with razor-sharp claws and the ability to breathe fire. The most notable feature of Doru Araeba, however, was its enormous scale. Every street was wide enough for at least two dragons to walk abreast, and with few exceptions, rooms and doorways were large enough to accommodate dragons of most any size.
As a result, Doru Araeba was a vast, sprawling affair, dotted with buildings of such immense proportions, even a dwarf would have been impressed. Gardens and fountains were common throughout the city, on account of the elves’ irrepressible love of nature, and there were many soaring towers among the Riders’ halls and holds.
Upon the peaks surrounding the city, the Riders placed watchtowers and eyries—to guard against attack—and more than one dragon and Rider had a well-appointed cave high in the mountains, where they lived apart from the rest of their order. The older, larger dragons were especially partial to this arrangement, as they often preferred solitude, and living above the floor of the cauldron made it easier for them to take flight.
Frustrated, Eragon broke off. The description of Doru Araeba was interesting enough, but he had read other, more detailed accounts of the Riders’ city during his time in Ellesméra. Nor did he enjoy having to decipher the cramped runes, a painstaking process even at the best of times.
“This is pointless,” he said, lowering the book.
Solembum looked as annoyed as Eragon felt. Don’t give up yet. Read another two pages. If there’s nothing by then, then you can stop.
Eragon took a breath and agreed. He ran his finger down the page until he found his place, whereupon he began to again pick out the sounds of the words:
The city contained many marvels, from the Singing Fountain of Eldimírim to the crystal fortress of Svellhjall to the rookeries of the dragons themselves, but for all their splendor, I believe that Doru Araeba’s greatest treasure was its library. Not, as one might assume, because of its imposing structure—although it was indeed imposing—but because over the centuries the Riders collected one of the most comprehensive stores of knowledge in the whole of the land. By the time of the Riders’ fall, there were only three libraries that rivaled it—that of Ilirea, that of Ellesméra, and that of Tronjheim—and none of those three contained as much information about the workings of magic as did the one in Doru Araeba.
The library was located on the northwestern edge of the city, near the gardens that surrounded Moraeta’s Spire, also known as the Rock of Kuthian …
Eragon’s voice died in his throat as he stared at the name. After a moment, he began again, even slower:
… also known as the Rock of Kuthian (see chapter twelve), and not far from the high seat, where the leaders of the Riders held court when various kings and queens came to petition them.
A sense of awe and fear came over Eragon. Some person or some thing had arranged for him to learn this particular piece of information, the same person or thing that had made it possible for him to find the brightsteel for his sword. The thought was intimidating, and now that Eragon knew where to go, he was no longer quite so sure that he wanted to.
What, he wondered, lay waiting for them on Vroengard? He was afraid to speculate, lest he raise hopes that were impossible to fulfill.
QUESTIONS UNANSWERED
ERAGON SEARCHED THROUGH Domia abr Wyrda until he found the reference to Kuthian in the twelfth chapter. To his disappointment, all it said was that Kuthian had been one of the first Riders to
explore Vroengard Island.
Afterward, he closed the book and sat staring at it, thumbing a ridge embossed across the spine. On the cot, Solembum was silent as well.
“Do you think that the Vault of Souls contains spirits?” asked Eragon.
Spirits are not the souls of the dead.
“No, but what else could they be?”
Solembum rose from where he had been sitting and stretched, a wave of motion moving through his body from his head to his tail. If you find out, I would be interested to hear what you discover.
“Do you think Saphira and I should go, then?”
I cannot tell you what you should do. If this is a trap, then most of my race has been broken and enslaved without them realizing it, and the Varden might as well surrender now, because they will never outwit Galbatorix. If not, then this may be an opportunity to find assistance where we thought none was to be had. I cannot say. You have to decide on your own whether it is a chance worth taking. As for me, I have had enough of this mystery.
He jumped down from the cot and walked over to the opening of the tent, where he paused and glanced back at Eragon. There are many strange forces at work in Alagaësia, Shadeslayer. I have seen things that defy belief: whirlwinds of light spinning in caverns deep below the ground, men who age backward, stones that speak, and shadows that creep. Rooms that are bigger on the inside than the outside. … Galbatorix is not the only power in the world to be reckoned with, and he may not even be the strongest. Choose carefully, Shadeslayer, and if you choose to go, walk softly.
And then the werecat slipped out of the tent and vanished into the darkness.
Eragon released his breath and leaned back. He knew what he had to do; he had to go to Vroengard. But he could not make that decision without consulting Saphira.
With a gentle nudge of his mind, he woke her, and once he had assured her that nothing was amiss, he shared his memories of Solembum’s visit. Her astonishment was as great as his.
When he finished, she said, I do not like the thought of playing the puppet to whoever has enchanted the werecats.
Neither do I, but what other choice do we have? If Galbatorix is behind this, then we’ll be placing ourselves in his hands. But if we stay, then we’ll be doing exactly the same, only when we arrive at Urû’baen.
The difference is, we would have the Varden and the elves with us.
That’s true.
Silence fell between them for a time. Then Saphira said, I agree. I agree; we should go. We need longer claws and sharper teeth if we are to best Galbatorix and Shruikan in addition to Murtagh and Thorn. Besides, Galbatorix expects us to rush straight to Urû’baen in hope of rescuing Nasuada. And if there is one thing that makes my scales itch, it is doing what our enemies expect.
Eragon nodded. And if this is a trap?
A soft growl sounded outside the tent. Then we will teach whoever set it to fear our names, even if it is Galbatorix.
He smiled. For the first time since Nasuada’s abduction, he felt a sense of purposeful direction. Here was something they could do—a means by which they could influence the unfolding of events, instead of just sitting by as passive observers. “Right, then,” he muttered.
Arya arrived at his tent mere seconds after he contacted her. Her speed puzzled him until she explained that she had been keeping watch with Blödhgarm and the other elves, lest Murtagh and Thorn return.
With her there, Eragon reached out with his mind to Glaedr and coaxed him into joining their conversation, though the surly dragon was in no mood to talk.
Once the four of them, including Saphira, were all joined by their thoughts, Eragon finally burst out, I know where the Rock of Kuthian is!
What rock is this? Glaedr rumbled, his tone sour.
The name seems familiar, said Arya, but I cannot place it.
Eragon frowned slightly. Both of them had heard him speak of Solembum’s advice before. It was not like either of them to forget.
Nevertheless, Eragon repeated the story of his encounter with Solembum in Teirm, and then he told them about the werecat’s most recent revelations and read them the pertinent section from the book Domia abr Wyrda.
Arya tucked a strand of hair behind one of her pointed ears. Speaking both with her mind and her voice, she said, “And what is the name of this place again?”
“… Moraeta’s Spire, or the Rock of Kuthian,” replied Eragon in the same manner. He hesitated for a half second, briefly thrown by her question. “It’s a long flight, but—”
—if Eragon and I leave forthwith—said Saphira.
“—we can travel there and back—”
—before the Varden arrive at Urû’baen. This—
“—is our only chance to go.”
We’ll not have the time—
“—to make the trip later on.”
Where would you be flying to, though? asked Glaedr.
“What … what do you mean?”
Exactly what I said, the dragon growled, the field of his mind darkening. For all your yammering, you’ve yet to tell us where this mysterious … thing is located.
“I have, though!” said Eragon, bewildered. “It’s on Vroengard Island!”
At last, a straightforward answer …
A frown creased Arya’s brow. “But what would you do on Vroengard?”
“I don’t know!” said Eragon, his temper rising. He debated whether it was worth confronting Glaedr about his remarks; the dragon seemed to be needling Eragon on purpose. “It depends on what we find. Once we’re there, we’ll try to open the Rock of Kuthian and discover whatever secrets it contains. If it’s a trap …” He shrugged. “Then we’ll fight.”
Arya’s expression grew increasingly troubled. “The Rock of Kuthian … The name seems weighted with significance, but I cannot say why; it echoes in my mind, like a song I once knew but have since forgotten.” She shook her head and put her hands to her temples. “Ah, now it is gone. …” She looked up. “Forgive me, what were we speaking of?”
“Going to Vroengard,” Eragon said slowly.
“Ah, yes … but for what purpose? You’re needed here, Eragon. In any case, nothing of value remains on Vroengard.”
Aye, said Glaedr. It is a dead and abandoned place. After the destruction of Doru Araeba, the few of us who had escaped returned to search for anything that might be of use, but the Forsworn had already picked the ruins clean.
Arya nodded. “Whatever put this idea in your head in the first place? I don’t understand how you could believe deserting the Varden now, when they’re at their most vulnerable, could possibly be wise. And for what? To fly to the far ends of Alagaësia without cause or reason? I had thought better of you. … You cannot leave just because you are uncomfortable with your new station, Eragon.”
Eragon decoupled his mind from Arya and Glaedr, and signaled to Saphira to do the same. They don’t remember! … They can’t remember!
It is magic. Deep magic, like the spell that hides the names of the dragons who betrayed the Riders.
But you haven’t forgotten about the Rock of Kuthian, have you?
Of course not, she said, her mind flashing green with pique. How could I when we are so closely joined?
A sense of vertigo gripped Eragon as he considered the implications. In order to be effective, the spell would have to erase the memories of everyone who knew about the rock in the first place and also the memories of anyone who heard or read about it thereafter. Which means … the whole of Alagaësia is in the thrall of this enchantment. No one can escape its reach.
Except for us.
Except for us, he agreed. And the werecats.
And, perhaps, Galbatorix.
Eragon shivered; it felt as if spiders made of ice crystals were crawling up and down his spine. The size of the deception astounded him and left him feeling small, vulnerable. To cloud the minds of elves, dwarves, humans, and dragons alike, and without arousing the slightest hint of suspicion, was a feat so difficult, he doubted
it could have been accomplished by a deliberate application of craft; rather, he believed it could only have been done by instinct, for such a spell would be far too complicated to put into words.
He had to know who was responsible for manipulating the minds of everyone in Alagaësia, and why. If it was Galbatorix, then Eragon feared that Solembum was right and the Varden’s defeat was inevitable.
Do you think this was the work of dragons, as was the Banishing of the Names? he asked.
Saphira was slow to answer. Perhaps. But then, as Solembum said to you, there are many powers in Alagaësia. Until we go to Vroengard, we won’t know for certain one way or another.
If ever we do.
Aye.
Eragon ran his fingers through his hair. He suddenly felt exceptionally tired. Why does everything have to be so hard? he wondered.
Because, said Saphira, everyone wants to eat, but no one wants to be eaten.
He snorted, grimly amused.
Despite the speed with which he and Saphira could exchange thoughts, their conversation had lasted long enough for Arya and Glaedr to notice.
“Why have you closed your minds to us?” asked Arya. Her gaze flicked toward one wall of the tent—the wall nearest to where Saphira lay curled in the darkness beyond. “Is something wrong?”
You seem perturbed, Glaedr added.
Eragon stifled a humorless chuckle. “Perhaps because I am.” Arya watched with concern as he went over to the cot and sat on the edge. He let his arms hang limp and heavy between his legs. He was silent for a moment as he made the shift from the language of his birth to that of the elves and magic, whereupon he said, “Do you trust Saphira and me?”
The resulting pause was gratifyingly brief.
“I do,” replied Arya, also in the ancient language.
As do I, Glaedr likewise said.