Will you? Eragon asked Saphira. He thought that the werecat would be more likely to come if Saphira asked him.

A moment later, he felt her searching with her mind through the camp, and then he sensed the touch of Solembum’s consciousness against Saphira’s. After she and the werecat exchanged a brief, wordless communication, Saphira announced, He is on his way.

They waited in silence, Eragon staring down at his hands as he compiled a list of supplies he would need for the trip to Vroengard.

When Solembum pushed aside the flaps to the tent and entered, Eragon was surprised to see that he was now in his human form: that of a young boy, dark-eyed and insolent. In his left hand, the werecat held a leg of roast goose, on which he was gnawing. A ring of grease coated his lips and chin, and drops of melted fat had splattered his bare chest.

As he chewed on a strip of flesh, Solembum motioned with his sharp, pointed chin toward the patch of dirt where Glaedr’s heart of hearts lay buried. What is it you want, firebreather? he asked.

To know if you are who you seem to be! said Glaedr, and the dragon’s consciousness seemed to surround Solembum’s, pressing inward like piles of black clouds around a brightly burning but wind-battered flame. The dragon’s strength was immense, and from personal experience, Eragon knew that few could hope to withstand him.

With a gargled yowl, Solembum spat out his mouthful of meat and sprang backward, as if he had stepped on a viper. He stood where he was, then, trembling with effort, his sharp teeth bared, and a look of such fury in his tawny eyes, Eragon placed his hand on the hilt of Brisingr as a precaution. The flame dimmed but held: a white-hot point of light amid a sea of churning thunderheads.

After a minute, the storm diminished and the clouds withdrew, although they did not disappear entirely.

My apologies, werecat, said Glaedr, but I had to know for certain.

Solembum hissed, and the hair on his head fluffed and spiked so that it resembled the blossom of a thistle. If you still had your body, old one, I would cut off your tail for that.

You, little cat? You could not have done more than scratch me.

Again Solembum hissed, and then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the entrance, his shoulders hunched close to his ears.

Wait, said Glaedr. Did you tell Eragon about this place on Vroengard, this place of secrets that none can remember?

The werecat paused, and without turning around, he growled and brandished the goose leg over his head in an impatient, dismissive gesture. I did.

And did you tell him the page in Domia abr Wyrda wherein he found the location of this place?

So it seems, but I have no memory of it, and I hope that whatever is on Vroengard singes your whiskers and burns your paws.

The entrance to the tent made a loud flapping sound as Solembum swatted it aside; then his small form melted into the shadows, as if he had never existed.

Eragon stood and, with the toe of his boot, pushed the scrap of half-eaten meat out of the tent.

“You should not have been so rough with him,” said Arya.

I had no other choice, said Glaedr.

“Didn’t you? You could have asked his permission first.”

And given him the opportunity to prepare? No. It is done; let it be, Arya.

“I cannot. His pride is wounded. You should attempt to placate him. It would be dangerous to have a werecat as your enemy.”

It is even more dangerous to have a dragon as your enemy. Let it be, elfling.

Troubled, Eragon exchanged looks with Arya. Glaedr’s tone bothered him—and her as well, he could see—but Eragon could not decide what to do about it.

Now, Eragon, the golden dragon said, will you allow me to examine the memories of your conversation with Solembum?

“If you want, but … why? You’ll only end up forgetting.”

Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not. We shall see. Addressing Arya, Glaedr said, Separate your mind from ours, and do not allow Eragon’s memories to taint your consciousness.

“As you wish, Glaedr-elda.” As Arya spoke, the music of her thoughts grew ever more distant. A moment later, the eerie singing faded to silence.

Then Glaedr returned his attention to Eragon. Show me, he commanded.

Ignoring his trepidation, Eragon cast his mind back to when Solembum had first arrived at the tent, and he carefully recalled everything that had transpired between the two of them thereafter. Glaedr’s consciousness melded with Eragon’s so that the dragon could relive the experiences along with him. It was an unsettling sensation; it felt as if he and the dragon were two images stamped onto the same side of a coin.

When he finished, Glaedr withdrew somewhat from Eragon’s mind and then, to Arya, said, When I have forgotten, if I do, repeat to me the words “Andumë and Fíronmas at the hill of sorrows, and their flesh like glass.” This place on Vroengard … I know of it. Or I once did. It was something of importance, something … The dragon’s thoughts grayed for a second, as if a layer of mist had been blown over the hills and valleys of his being, obscuring them. Well? he demanded, regaining his former brusque attitude. Why do we tarry? Eragon, show me your memories.

“I already have.”

Even as Glaedr’s mood turned to disbelief, Arya said, “Glaedr, remember: ‘Andumë and Fíronmas at the hill of sorrows, and their flesh like glass.’ ”

How—Glaedr started, and then he growled with such force, Eragon almost expected to hear the sound out loud. Argh. I hate spells that interfere with one’s memory. They’re the worst form of magic, always leading to chaos and confusion. Half the time they seem to end with family members killing one another without realizing it.