In a harsh voice, Eragon said, “If Saphira doesn’t fly me to Farthen Dûr, then how am I supposed to travel there in a timely fashion?”

“By running. You told me yourself you ran much of the distance from Helgrind. I expect that without having to hide from soldiers or peasants you can traverse many more leagues each day on the way to Farthen Dûr than you were able to in the Empire.” Again Nasuada drummed the polished wood of her chair. “Of course, it would be foolish to go alone. Even a powerful magician can die of a simple accident in the far reaches of the wilderness if he has no one to help him. Shepherding you through the Beor Mountains would be a waste of Arya’s talents, and people would notice if one of Blödhgarm’s elves disappeared without explanation. Therefore, I

have decided that a Kull should accompany you, as they are the only other creatures capable of matching your pace.”

“A Kull!” exclaimed Eragon, unable to contain himself any longer. “You would send me among the dwarves with a Kull by my side? I cannot think of any race the dwarves hate more than the Urgals. They make bows out of their horns! If I walked into Farthen Dûr with an Urgal, the dwarves would not pay heed to anything I had to say.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Nasuada. “Which is why you will not go directly to Farthen Dûr. Instead, you will first stop at Bregan Hold on Mount Thardûr, which is the ancestral home of the Ingeitum. There you will find Orik, and there you can leave the Kull while you continue on to Farthen Dûr in Orik’s company.”

Staring somewhat beyond Nasuada, Eragon said, “And what if I do not agree with the path you have chosen? What if I believe there are other, safer ways to accomplish what you desire?”

“What ways would those be, pray tell?” asked Nasuada, her fingers pausing in midair.

“I would have to think about it, but I am sure they exist.”

“I have thought about it, Eragon, and at great length. Having you act as my emissary is our only hope of influencing the succession of the dwarves. I was raised among dwarves, remember, and I have a better understanding of them than most humans.”

“I still believe it’s a mistake,” he growled. “Send Jörmundur instead, or one of your other commanders. I won’t go, not while—”

“You won’t?” said Nasuada, her voice rising. “A vassal who disobeys his lord is no better than a warrior who ignores his captain on the field of battle and may be punished similarly. As your liegelord, then, Eragon, I order you to run to Farthen Dûr, whether you want to or not, and to oversee the choosing of the next ruler of the dwarves.”

Furious, Eragon breathed heavily through his nose, gripping and regripping the pommel of his falchion.

In a softer, although still guarded, tone, Nasuada said, “What will

it be, Eragon? Will you do as I ask, or will you dispossess me and lead the Varden yourself? Those are your only options.”

Shocked, he said, “No, I can reason with you. I can convince you otherwise.”

“You cannot, because you cannot provide me with an alternative that is as likely to succeed.”

He met her gaze. “I could refuse your order and let you punish me however you deem fit.”

His suggestion startled her. Then she said, “To see you lashed to a whipping post would do irreparable harm to the Varden. And it would destroy my authority, for people would know you could defy me whenever you wanted, with the only consequence being a handful of stripes that you could heal an instant later, for we cannot execute you, as we would any other warrior who disobeyed a superior. I would rather abdicate my post and grant you command of the Varden than allow such a thing to occur. If you believe you are better suited for the task, then take my position, take my chair, and declare yourself master of this army! But so long as I speak for the Varden, I have the right to make these decisions. If they be mistakes, then that is my responsibility as well.”

“Will you listen to no advice?” Eragon asked, troubled. “Will you dictate the course of the Varden regardless of what those around you counsel?”

Nasuada’s middle fingernail clacked against the polished wood of her chair. “I do listen to advice. I listen to a continuous stream of advice every waking hour of my life, but sometimes my conclusions do not match those of my underlings. Now, you must decide whether you will uphold your oath of fealty and abide by my decision, even though you may not agree with it, or if you will set yourself up as a mirror image of Galbatorix.”

“I only want what is best for the Varden,” he said.

“As do I.”

“You leave me no choice but one I dislike.”

“Sometimes it is harder to follow than it is to lead.”

“May I have a moment to think?”

“You may.”

Saphira? he asked.

Flecks of purple light danced around the interior of the pavilion as she twisted her neck and fixed her eyes upon Eragon’s. Little one?

Should I go?

I think you must.

He pressed his lips together in a rigid line. And what of you?

You know I hate to be separated from you, but Nasuada’s arguments are well reasoned. If I can help keep Murtagh and Thorn away by remaining with the Varden, then perhaps I should.

His emotions and hers washed between their minds, tidal surges in a shared pool of anger, anticipation, reluctance, and tenderness. From him flowed the anger and reluctance; from her other, gentler sentiments—as rich in scope as his own—that moderated his choleric passion and lent him perspectives he would not otherwise have. Nevertheless, he clung with stubborn insistence to his opposition to Nasuada’s scheme. If you flew me to Farthen Dûr, I would not be gone for as long, meaning Galbatorix would have less of an opportunity to mount a new assault.