“Listen!” shouted Eragon. “One of the Ra’zac is still on the loose. And think what else might be in Helgrind: scrolls, potions, information about the Empire’s activities—things that can help us! The Ra’zac may even have eggs of theirs stored here. If they do, I have to destroy them before Galbatorix can claim them for his own.”

To Saphira, Eragon also said, I can’t kill Sloan, I can’t let Roran or Katrina see him, and I can’t allow him to starve to death in his cell or Galbatorix’s men to recapture him. I’m sorry, but I have to deal with Sloan on my own.

“How will you get out of the Empire?” demanded Roran.

“I’ll run. I’m as fast as an elf now, you know.”

The tip of Saphira’s tail twitched. That was the only warning Eragon had before she leaped toward him, extending one of her glittering paws. He fled, dashing into the tunnel a fraction of a second before Saphira’s foot passed through the space where he had been.

Saphira skidded to a stop in front of the tunnel and roared with frustration that she was unable to follow him into the narrow enclosure. Her bulk blocked most of the light. The stone shook around Eragon as she tore at the entrance with her claws and teeth, breaking off thick chunks. Her feral snarls and the sight of her lunging muzzle, filled with teeth as long as his forearm, sent a jolt of fear through Eragon. He understood then how a rabbit must feel when it cowers in its den while a wolf digs after it.

“Gánga!” he shouted.

No! Saphira placed her head on the ground and uttered a mournful keen, her eyes large and pitiful.

“Gánga! I love you, Saphira, but you have to go.”

She retreated several yards from the tunnel and snuffled at him, mewling like a cat. Little one . . .

Eragon hated to make her unhappy, and he hated to send her away; it felt as if he were tearing himself apart. Saphira’s misery flowed across their mental link and, coupled with his own anguish, almost paralyzed him. Somehow he mustered the nerve to say, “Gánga! And don’t come back for me or send anyone else for me. I’ll be fine. Gánga! Gánga!”

Saphira howled with frustration and then reluctantly walked to the mouth of the cave. From his place on her saddle, Roran said, “Eragon, come on! Don’t be daft. You’re too important to risk—”

A combination of noise and motion obscured the rest of his sentence as Saphira launched herself out of the cave. In the clear sky beyond, her scales sparkled like a multitude of brilliant blue diamonds. She was, Eragon thought, magnificent: proud, noble, and more beautiful than any other living creature. No stag or lion could compete with the majesty of a dragon in flight. She said, A week: that is how long I shall wait. Then I shall return for you, Eragon, even if I must fight my way past Thorn, Shruikan, and a thousand magicians.

Eragon stood there until she dwindled from sight and he could no longer touch her mind. Then, his heart heavy as lead, he squared his shoulders and turned away from the sun and all things bright and living and once more descended into the tunnels of shadow.

RIDER AND RA’ZAC

Eragon sat bathed in the heatless radiance from his crimson werelight in the hall lined with cells near the center of Helgrind. His staff lay across his lap.

The rock reflected his voice as he repeated a phrase in the ancient language over and over again. It was not magic, but rather a message to the remaining Ra’zac. What he said meant this: “Come, O thou eater of men’s flesh, let us end this fight of ours. You are hurt, and I am weary. Your companions are dead, and I am alone. We are a fit match. I promise that I shall not use gramarye against you, nor hurt or trap you with spells I have already cast. Come, O thou eater of men’s flesh, let us end this fight of ours. . . .”

The time during which he spoke seemed endless: a neverwhen in a ghastly tinted chamber that remained unchanged through an eternity of cycling words whose order and significance ceased to matter to him. After a time, his clamoring thoughts fell silent, and a strange calm crept over him.

He paused with his mouth open, then closed it, watchful.

Thirty feet in front of him stood the Ra’zac. Blood dripped from the hem of the creature’s ragged robes. “My massster does not want me to kill you,” it hissed.

“But that does not matter to you now.”

“No. If I fall to your staff, let Galbatorix deal with you as he will. He has more heartsss than you do.”

Eragon laughed. “Hearts? I am the champion of the people, not him.”

“Foolish boy.” The Ra’zac cocked its head slightly, looking past him at the corpse of the other Ra’zac farther up the tunnel. “She was my hatchmate. You have become ssstrong since we firssst met, Shadeslayer.”

“It was that or die.”

“Will you make a pact with me, Shadeslayer?”

“What kind of a pact?”

“I am the lassst of my race, Shadeslayer. We are ancient, and I would not have us forgotten. Would you, in your songsss and in your hissstories, remind your fellow humans of the terror we inssspired in your kind? . . . Remember us as fear!”

“Why should I do that for you?”

Tucking its beak against its narrow chest, the Ra’zac clucked and chittered to itself for several moments. “Because,” it said, “I will tell you sssomething secret, yesss I will.”

“Then tell me.”

“Give me your word firssst, lest you trick me.”

“No. Tell me, and then I will decide whether or not to agree.”