Why would you, the werecats, have been entrusted with this information?

Because, I would guess, we have always been friends of the Riders and friends of the dragons.… We are the watchers. The listeners. The wanderers. We walk alone in the dark places of the world, and we remember what is and what has been.

Solembum’s gaze shifted away. Understand this, Eragon. None of us have been happy with the situation. We long debated whether it would cause more harm than good to pass on this information should the moment arise. In the end, the decision was mine, and I decided to tell you, for it seemed you needed all the help you could get. Make of it what you will.

“But what am I supposed to do?” said Eragon. “How am I supposed to find the Rock of Kuthian?”

That I cannot say.

“Then what use is the information? I might as well have never heard it.”

Solembum blinked, once. There is one other thing I can tell you. It may mean nothing, but perhaps it can show you the way.

“What? What is it?”

If you but wait, I will tell you. When I first met you in Teirm, I had a strange feeling that you ought to have the book Domia abr Wyrda. It took me time to arrange it, but it was I who was responsible for Jeod giving the book to you. Then the werecat lifted his other paw and, after a cursory examination, began to lick it.

“Have you gotten any other strange feelings in the past few months?” asked Eragon.

Only the urge to eat a small red mushroom, but it passed quickly enough.

Eragon grunted and bent down to retrieve the book from under his cot, where he kept it with the rest of his writing supplies. He stared at the large, leather-bound volume before opening it to a random page. As usual, the thicket of runes within made little sense to him at first glance. It was only with a concerted effort that he was able to decipher even a few of them:

… which, if Taladorous is to be believed, would mean that the mountains themselves were the result of a spell. That, of course, is absurd, for …

Eragon growled with frustration and closed the book. “I don’t have time for this. It’s too big, and I’m too slow of a reader. I’ve already gone through a fair number of chapters, and I’ve seen nothing having to do with the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls.”

Solembum eyed him for a moment. You could ask someone else to read it for you, but if there is a secret hidden in Domia abr Wyrda, you may be the only one who can see it.

Eragon resisted the desire to curse. Springing up from the stool, he began to pace again. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this sooner?”

It didn’t seem important. Either my advice concerning the vault and the rock would be of help or it wouldn’t, and knowing the origins of that information—or lack thereof—would … have … changed … nothing!

“But if I had known it had something to do with the Vault of Souls, I would have spent more time reading it.”

But we don’t know that it does, said Solembum. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and passed over the whiskers on each side of his face, smoothing them. The book may have nothing to do with the Rock of Kuthian or the Vault of Souls. Who can say? Besides, you were already reading it. Would you really have spent more time with it if I had said that I had a feeling—and mind you, nothing more—that the book was of some significance to you? Hmm?

“Maybe not … but you still should have told me.”

The werecat tucked his front paws under his breast and did not answer.

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?