“What have you in mind?” asked King Orrin in a tone of caution.
“Something bold; something … unexpected.”
Eragon snorted softly. “Perhaps you should consult Roran, then.”
“I have no need of Roran’s help in devising my plans, Eragon.”
Nasuada fell silent again, and everyone in the pavilion, including Eragon, waited to see what she would come up with. At last she stirred and said, “This: we send a small team of warriors to open the gates from the inside.”
“And how is anyone supposed to manage that?” demanded Orik. “It would be tricky enough if all they had to face were the hundreds of soldiers stationed in the area, but in case you have forgotten, there’s also a giant, fire-breathing lizard lounging close by, and he’s sure to take an interest in anyone foolish enough to pry open the gates. And that’s not even taking Murtagh into account.”
Before the discussion could devolve, Eragon said, “I can do it.”
The words had an immediate, chilling effect on the conversation.
Eragon expected Nasuada to reject his suggestion out of hand, but she surprised him by considering it. Then she surprised him further when she said, “Very well.”
All the arguments Eragon had built up fell away as he stared at Nasuada with astonishment. She had obviously followed the same chain of reasoning as he had.
The tent erupted in a confusion of overlapping voices as everyone began to speak at once. Arya won out over the din: “Nasuada, you cannot allow Eragon to endanger himself so. It would be unconscionable. Send some of Blödhgarm’s spellcasters instead; I know they would agree to help, and they are as mighty warriors as any you can find, including Eragon.”
Nasuada shook her head. “None of Galbatorix’s men would dare kill Eragon—not Murtagh, not the king’s pet magicians, not even the lowest of soldiers. We should use that to our advantage. Besides, Eragon is our strongest spellcaster, and it may require a great deal of strength to force open the gates. Of all of us, he has the best chance of success.”
“What if he is captured, though? He can’t hold his own against Murtagh. You know that!”
“We’ll distract Murtagh and Thorn, and that will give Eragon the opportunity he needs.”
Arya lifted her chin. “How? How will you distract them?”
“We’ll make as though to attack Dras-Leona from the south. Saphira will fly around the city, setting buildings on fire and killing soldiers on the walls. Thorn and Murtagh will have no choice but to give chase, especially since it will appear as if Eragon is riding Saphira the whole time. Blödhgarm and his fellow spellcasters can conjure up a facsimile of Eragon, as they did before. As long as Murtagh doesn’t get too close, he’ll never discover our subterfuge.”
“You are determined in this?”
“I am.”
Arya’s face hardened. “Then I will accompany Eragon.”
Relief seeped through Eragon. He had hoped she would go with him, but he had been uncertain whether to ask, for fear she would refuse.
Nasuada sighed. “You are Islanzadí’s daughter. I would not like to place you in such danger. If you were to die … Remember how your mother reacted when she thought Durza had killed you. We cannot afford to lose the help of your people.”
“My mother—” Arya clamped her lips shut, cutting herself off, then began anew: “I can assure you, Lady Nasuada, Queen Islanzadí shall not abandon the Varden, whatever may happen to me. Of that, you need have no concern. I will accompany Eragon, as will two of Blödhgarm’s spellcasters.”
Nasuada shook her head. “No, you can only take one. Murtagh is familiar with the number of elves who have been protecting Eragon. If he notices that two or more are missing, he may suspect a trap of some sort. In any event, Saphira will need as much help as she can get if she’s to keep out of Murtagh’s grasp.”
“Three people are not enough to attempt such a mission,” insisted Arya. “We would be unable to ensure Eragon’s safety, much less open the gates.”
“Then one of Du Vrangr Gata can go with you as well.”
A hint of derision colored Arya’s expression. “None of your spellcasters are strong or skilled enough. We’ll be outnumbered a hundred to one, or worse. Both ordinary swordsmen and trained magicians will be arrayed against us. Only elves or Riders—”
“Or Shades,” Orik rumbled.
“Or Shades,” Arya conceded, though Eragon could tell she was irritated. “Only those could hope to prevail against such odds. And even then it is no sure thing. Let us take two of Blödhgarm’s spellcasters. No one else is fit for the task, not among the Varden.”
“Oh, and what am I, chopped liver?”
Everyone turned to look, surprised, as Angela stepped forward from a corner at the back of the tent. Eragon had not even suspected she was there.
“What a strange expression,” said the herbalist. “Who would compare themselves to chopped liver in the first place? If you have to choose an organ, why not pick a gallbladder or a thymus gland instead? Much more interesting than a liver. Or what about chopped t—” She smiled. “Well, I suppose that’s not important.” She stopped in front of Arya and looked up at her. “Will you object if I accompany you, Älfa? I’m not a member of the Varden, not strictly speaking, but I’m still willing to round out this quartet of yours.”
Much to Eragon’s surprise, Arya bowed her head and said, “Of course, wise one. I meant no offense. It would be an honor to have you with us.”
“Good!” exclaimed Angela. “That is, assuming you don’t mind,” she said, directing her words to Nasuada.
Appearing somewhat bemused, Nasuada shook her head. “If you are willing, and neither Eragon nor Arya objects, then I can think of no reason why you shouldn’t go. I can’t imagine why you’d want to, though.”
Angela tossed her curls. “Do you expect me to explain every decision I make? … Oh, very well, if it’ll satisfy your curiosity, let’s say I have a grudge against the priests of Helgrind, and I’d like the chance to do them some mischief. And besides, if Murtagh puts in an appearance, I have a trick or two up my sleeve that might give him a bit of a turn.”
“We should ask Elva to go with us as well,” said Eragon. “If anyone can help us avoid danger …”
Nasuada frowned. “Last we spoke, she made her position clear enough. I’ll not go bowing and scraping to her in an attempt to convince her otherwise.”
“I’ll talk with her,” said Eragon. “I’m the one she’s angry with, and I’m the one who should ask her.”
Nasuada plucked at the fringe of her golden dress. She rolled several strands between her fingers, then abruptly said, “Do as you wish. I dislike the thought of sending a child—even one as gifted as Elva—into battle. However, I suppose she is more than capable of protecting herself.”
“As long as the pain of those around her doesn’t overwhelm her,” said Angela. “The last few battles have left her curled in a ball, barely able to move or breathe.”
Nasuada stilled her fingers and peered at Eragon with a serious expression. “She’s unpredictable. If she does choose to go along, be careful of her, Eragon.”
“I will,” he promised.
Then Nasuada began to discuss questions of logistics with Orrin and Orik, and Eragon withdrew somewhat from the conversation, for he had little to contribute.
In the privacy of his mind, he reached out to Saphira, who had been listening, through him, to the goings-on. Well? he asked. What do you think? You’ve been awfully quiet. I thought for sure you would say something when Nasuada proposed sneaking into Dras-Leona.
I said nothing because I had nothing to say. It is a good plan.
You agree with her?!
We are no longer awkward younglings, Eragon. Our enemies may be fearsome, but so are we. It is time we remind them of that.
Does it bother you that we’ll be apart?
Of course it bothers me, she growled. Wherever you go, enemies flock to you like flies to flesh
. However, you are not as helpless as you once were. And she almost seemed to purr.
Me, helpless? he said with mock outrage.
Only a little bit. But your bite is more dangerous than before.
So is yours.
Mmm. … I go to hunt. A wing-breaking storm is building, and I’ll not have a chance to eat again until after we attack.
Fly safely, he said.
As he felt her presence receding from him, Eragon returned his attention to the conversation within the tent, for he knew his life, and that of Saphira, would depend on the decisions Nasuada, Orik, and Orrin would make.
UNDER HILL AND STONE
ERAGON ROLLED HIS shoulders, trying to get his mail hauberk to rest comfortably under the tunic he wore to hide the armor.
Darkness lay all around them, heavy and oppressive. A thick layer of clouds obscured the moon and the stars. Without the red werelight Angela held in the palm of her hand, even Eragon and the elves would have been unable to see.
The air was humid, and once or twice, Eragon felt a few cold drops of rain strike his cheeks.
Elva had laughed and refused when he had asked for her help. He had argued with her long and hard, but to no avail. Saphira had even intervened, flying down to the tent where the witch-child was staying and placing her massive head just feet away from the girl, forcing her to look into one of Saphira’s brilliant, unblinking eyes.
Elva had not had the temerity to laugh then, but she remained obdurate in her refusal. Her stubbornness frustrated Eragon. Still, he could not help but admire her strength of character; to say no to both a Rider and a dragon was no small thing. Then again, she had endured an incredible amount of pain in her short life, and the experience had hardened her to a degree rarely seen even in the most jaded of warriors.
Beside him, Arya fastened a long cloak around her neck. Eragon wore one as well, as did Angela and the black-haired elf Wyrden, whom Blödhgarm had chosen to accompany them. The cloaks were needed to protect them against the night chill, as well as to conceal their weapons from anyone they might encounter in the city, if they got that far.
Nasuada, Jörmundur, and Saphira had accompanied them to the edge of the camp, where they now stood. Among the tents, the men of the Varden, dwarves, and Urgals were busy preparing to march forth.
“Don’t forget,” said Nasuada, her breath steaming in front of her, “if you can’t reach the gates by dawn, find somewhere to wait until tomorrow morning, and we’ll try again then.”
“We may not have the luxury of waiting,” said Arya.
Nasuada rubbed her arms and nodded. She appeared unusually worried. “I know. Either way, we’ll be ready to attack as soon as you contact us, no matter the time of day. Your safety is more important than capturing Dras-Leona. Remember that.” Her gaze drifted toward Eragon as she spoke.
“We should be off,” said Wyrden. “The night grows old.”
Eragon pressed his forehead against Saphira for a moment. Good hunting, she said softly.
And you as well.
They reluctantly parted, and Eragon joined Arya and Wyrden as they followed Angela away from the camp, heading toward the eastern edge of the city. Nasuada and Jörmundur murmured well-wishes and farewells as they strode past, and then all was quiet, save the sounds of their breathing and of their boots on the ground.
Angela dimmed the light in her palm until it was barely bright enough for Eragon to see his feet. He had to strain his eyes to spot rocks and branches that lay in the way.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour, at which point the herbalist stopped and whispered, “We’re here, as best I can tell. I’m fairly good at reckoning distances, but we might be off by more than a thousand feet. It’s hard to be certain of anything in this gloom.”
Off to their left, a half-dozen pinpricks of light floated above the horizon, the only evidence that they were anywhere near Dras-Leona. The lights seemed close enough to pluck from the air.
He and the two women gathered around Wyrden as the elf knelt and pulled the glove off his right hand. Placing his palm against the bare earth, Wyrden began to croon the spell he had learned from the dwarven magician whom—ere they left on their mission—Orik had sent to instruct them in the ways of detecting underground chambers.
While the elf sang, Eragon stared into the surrounding blackness, listening and watching for enemies. The fall of raindrops on his face increased. He hoped the weather would improve before battle was joined, if battle was to be joined.
An owl hooted somewhere, and he reached for Brisingr, only to stop himself and clench his fist. Barzûl, he said to himself, using Orik’s favorite curse. He was more nervous than he ought to be. The knowledge that he might be about to fight Murtagh and Thorn again—singly or together—had put him on edge.
I’ll be sure to lose if I keep on like this, he thought. So he slowed his breathing and initiated the first of the mental exercises Glaedr had taught him for establishing control over his emotions.
The old dragon had not been enthusiastic about the mission when Eragon told him about it, but neither had he opposed it. After discussing various contingencies, Glaedr had said: Beware of the shadows, Eragon. Strange things lurk in dark places, which, Eragon thought, was hardly an encouraging statement.
He wiped the accumulated moisture off his face, keeping his other hand close to the hilt of his sword. The leather of his glove was warm and smooth against his skin.
Lowering his hand, he hooked his thumb under his sword belt, the belt of Beloth the Wise, conscious of the weight of the twelve flawless diamonds concealed within. That morning, he had gone to the livestock pens, and as the cooks killed the birds and sheep for the army’s breakfast, he had transferred the animals’ dying energy into the gems. He hated doing so; when he reached out with his mind to an animal—if it still had its head attached—the animal’s fear and pain became his own, and as it slipped into the void, he felt as if he himself were dying. It was a horrible, panic-inducing experience. Whenever he could, he had whispered words in the ancient language to the animals in an attempt to comfort them. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Though the creatures would have died in any case, and though he needed the energy, he hated the practice, for it made him feel as if he were responsible for their deaths. It made him feel unclean.
Now he fancied that the belt was slightly heavier than before, laden as it was with the energy from so many animals. Even if the diamonds within had been worthless, Eragon would have regarded the belt as valuable beyond gold, on account of the dozens of lives that had gone into filling it.
As Wyrden ceased singing, Arya asked, “Have you found it?”
“This way,” said Wyrden, standing.
Relief and trepidation swept through Eragon. Jeod was right!
Wyrden led them over a road and a series of small hills, then down into a shallow wash hidden within the folds of the land. “The mouth of the tunnel should be somewhere here,” said the elf, and gestured at the western bank of the depression.
The herbalist increased the brightness of her werelight enough for them to search by; then Eragon, Arya, and Wyrden began to comb through the brush along the side of the bank, poking at the ground with sticks. Twice Eragon barked his shins against the stumps of fallen birch trees, causing him to suck in his breath with pain. He wished he was wearing bracers, but he had left them behind, along with his shield, because they would have attracted too much attention in the city.
For twenty minutes, they searched, ranging up and down the bank as they worked their way out from their starting point. At last Eragon heard a ring of metal, and then Arya softly called, “Here.”
He and the others hurried toward her, where she stood by a small, overgrown hollow in the side of the bank. Arya drew aside the brush to reveal a stone-lined tunnel five feet tall and three feet wide. A rusting iron grate covered the gaping hole.
“Look,” said Arya, and she pointed at the ground.
Eragon looked, and he saw a path le
ading out of the tunnel. Even by the weird red illumination of the herbalist’s werelight, Eragon could tell that the trail had been worn into place by the passage of tramping feet. One or more people must have been using the tunnel to surreptitiously enter and exit Dras-Leona.
“We should proceed with caution,” whispered Wyrden.
Angela made a faint noise in her throat. “How else were you planning to proceed? With blaring trumpets and shouting heralds? Really.”
The elf refrained from answering, but he appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
Arya and Wyrden pulled off the grating and cautiously moved into the tunnel. Both conjured werelights of their own. The flameless orbs floated over their heads like small red suns, though they emitted no more light than a handful of coals.
Eragon hung back and said to Angela, “Why do the elves treat you so respectfully? They seem almost afraid of you.”
“Am I not deserving of respect?”
He hesitated. “One of these days, you know, you’re going to have to tell me about yourself.”
“What makes you think that?” And she pushed past him to enter the tunnel, her cloak flapping like the wings of a Lethrblaka.
Shaking his head, Eragon followed.
The short herbalist did not have to bend much in order to avoid bumping into the ceiling, but Eragon had to hunch like an old man with rheumatism, as did the two elves. For the most part, the tunnel was empty. A fine layer of caked dirt covered the floor. A few sticks and rocks, and even a discarded snakeskin, were scattered near the mouth of the tunnel. The passageway smelled like damp straw and moth wings.
Eragon and the others walked as quietly as they could, but the tunnel magnified sounds. Every bump and scrape echoed, filling the air with a multitude of overlapping whispers that seemed to murmur and sigh with a life of their own. The whispers made Eragon feel as if they were surrounded by a host of disembodied spirits who were commenting on their every move.