After a moment, he felt a grudging acknowledgment from the werecat, and he severed the contact.

Then Eragon sat alone in the dark … and waited.

FRAGMENTS, HALF-SEEN AND INDISTINCT

ver a quarter of an hour passed before the flap to Eragon’s tent stirred and Solembum pushed his way inside, his padded feet nearly silent upon the ground.

The tawny werecat walked past Eragon without looking at him, jumped onto his cot, and settled among his blankets, whereupon he began to lick the webbing between the claws of his right paw. Still not looking at Eragon, he said, I am not a dog to come and go at your summons, Eragon.

“I never thought you were,” Eragon replied. “But I have need of you, and it is urgent.”

Mmh. The rasping of Solembum’s tongue grew louder as he concentrated on the leathery palm of his foot. Speak then, Shadeslayer. What do you want?

“One moment.” Eragon stood and went over to the pole where his lantern hung. “I’m going to light this,” he warned Solembum. Then Eragon spoke a word in the ancient language, and a flame sprang to life atop the wick of the lantern, filling the tent with a warm, flickering illumination.

Both Eragon and Solembum squinted while they waited for their eyes to adjust to the increase in brightness. When the light no longer felt quite so uncomfortable, Eragon seated himself on his stool, not far from the cot.

The werecat, he was puzzled to see, was watching him with ice-blue eyes.

“Weren’t your eyes a different color?” he asked.

Solembum blinked once, and his eyes changed from blue to gold. Then he resumed cleaning his paw. What do you want, Shadeslayer? The night is for the doing of things, not sitting and talking. The tip of his tasseled tail lashed from side to side.

Eragon wet his lips, his hope making him nervous. “Solembum, you told me that when all seemed lost and my power was insufficient, I should go to the Rock of Kuthian and open the Vault of Souls.”

The werecat paused in his licking. Ah, that.

“Yes, that. And I need to know what you meant by it. If there’s anything that can help us against Galbatorix, I need to know about it now—not later, not once I manage to solve one riddle or another, but now. So, where can I find the Rock of Kuthian, how do I open the Vault of Souls, and what will I find inside it?”

Solembum’s black-tipped ears angled backward slightly, and the claws on the paw he was cleaning extended halfway from their sheaths. I don’t know.

“You don’t know?!” exclaimed Eragon in disbelief.

Must you repeat everything I say?

“How can you not know?”

I don’t know.

Leaning forward, Eragon grabbed Solembum’s large, heavy paw. The werecat’s ears flattened, and he hissed and curled his paw inward, digging his claws into Eragon’s hand. Eragon smiled tightly and ignored the pain. The werecat was stronger than he had expected, almost strong enough to pull him off the stool.

“No more riddles,” Eragon said. “I need the truth, Solembum. Where did you get this information and what does it mean?”

The fur along Solembum’s spine bristled. Sometimes riddles are the truth, you thick-headed human. Now let me go, or I’ll tear your face off and feed your guts to the crows.

Eragon maintained his grip for a moment longer, then he released Solembum’s paw and leaned back. He clenched his hand to help dull the pain and stop the bleeding.

Solembum glared at him with slitted eyes, all pretense of detachment gone. I said I don’t know because, despite what you might think, I do not know. I have no knowledge of where the Rock of Kuthian might lie, nor how you might open the Vault of Souls, nor what the vault might contain.

“Say that in the ancient language.”

Solembum’s eyes narrowed even farther, but he repeated himself in the tongue of the elves, and then Eragon knew he was speaking the truth.

So many questions occurred to Eragon, he hardly knew which to ask first. “How did you learn of the Rock of Kuthian, then?”

Again Solembum’s tail lashed from side to side, flattening wrinkles in the blanket. For the last time, I do not know. Nor do any of my kind.

“Then how …?” Eragon trailed off, overcome by confusion.

Soon after the fall of the Riders, a certain conviction came upon the members of our race that, should we encounter a new Rider, one who was not beholden to Galbatorix, we should tell him or her what I told you: of the Menoa tree and of the Rock of Kuthian.

“But … where did the information come from?”

Solembum’s muzzle wrinkled as he bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. That we cannot say, only that whoever or whatever was responsible for it meant well.

“How can you know that?” exclaimed Eragon. “What if it was Galbatorix? He could be trying to trick you. He could be trying to trick Saphira and me, so as to capture us.”

No, said Solembum, and his claws sank into the blanket under him. Werecats are not so easily fooled as others. Galbatorix is not the one behind this. Of that, I am sure. Whoever wanted you to have this information is the same person or creature who arranged for you to find the brightsteel for your sword. Would Galbatorix have done that?

Eragon frowned. “Haven’t you tried to find out who is behind this?”

We have.

“And?”

We failed. The werecat ruffled his fur. There are two possibilities. One, that our memories were altered against our will and we are the pawns of some nefarious entity. Or two, that we agreed to the alteration, for whatever reason. Perhaps we even excised the memories ourselves. I find it difficult and distasteful to believe that anyone could have succeeded in meddling with our minds. A few of us, I could understand. But our entire race? No. It cannot be.