Katrina blushed and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. Along with her embarrassment at such attentions, a hint of pride colored her expression, as if she knew how remarkable Roran was and delighted in having captured his heart, of all the women in Alagaësia. He was hers, and that was all the status or treasure she desired.

A pang of loneliness shot through Nasuada. I wish I had what they have, she thought. Her responsibilities prevented her from entertaining girlish dreams of romance and marriage—and certainly children—unless she were to arrange a marriage of convenience for the good of the Varden. She had often considered doing that with Orrin, but her nerve always failed her. Still, she was content with her lot and did not begrudge Katrina and Roran their happiness. Her cause was what she cared about; defeating Galbatorix was far more important than something as trifling as marriage. Most everyone got married, but how many had the opportunity to oversee the birth of a new age?

I’m not myself this evening, realized Nasuada. My wounds have set my thoughts ahumming like a nest of bees. Shaking herself, she looked past Roran and Katrina to Saphira. Nasuada opened up the barriers she usually maintained around her mind so she might hear what Saphira had to say and then asked: “Where is he?”

With the dry rustle of scales sliding over scales, Saphira crept forward and lowered her neck so her head was directly in front of Nasuada, Arya, and Angela. The dragon’s left eye sparkled with blue fire. She sniffed twice, and her crimson tongue darted out of her mouth. Hot, moist breath ruffled the lace collar on Nasuada’s dress.

Nasuada swallowed as Saphira’s consciousness brushed against her own. Saphira felt unlike any other being Nasuada had encountered: ancient, alien, and both ferocious and gentle. That, along with Saphira’s imposing physical presence, always reminded Nasuada that if Saphira wanted to eat them, she could. It was impossible, Nasuada believed, to be complacent around a dragon.

I smell blood, said Saphira. Who has hurt you, Nasuada? Name them, and I shall tear them from neck to groin and bring you their heads for trophies.

“There’s no need for you to tear anyone apart. Not yet, at least. I wielded the knife myself. However, this is the wrong time to delve into the matter. Right now, all I care about is Eragon’s whereabouts.”

Eragon, said Saphira, decided to remain in the Empire.

For a few seconds, Nasuada was unable to move or think. Then a mounting sense of doom replaced her stunned denial of Saphira’s revelation. The others reacted in various ways as well, from which Nasuada deduced Saphira had spoken to them all at once.

“How . . . how could you allow him to stay?” she asked.

Small tongues of fire rippled in Saphira’s nostrils as she snorted. Eragon made his own choice. I could not stop him. He insists upon doing what he thinks is right, no matter the consequences for him or the rest of Alagaësia. . . . I could shake him like a hatchling, but I’m proud of him. Fear not; he can take care of himself. So far, no misfortune has befallen him. I would know if he was hurt.

Arya spoke: “And why did he make this choice, Saphira?”

It would be faster for me to show you rather than explain with words. May I?

They all indicated their consent.

A river of Saphira’s memories poured into Nasuada. She saw black Helgrind from above a layer of clouds; heard Eragon, Roran, and Saphira discussing how best to attack; watched them discover the Ra’zac’s lair; and experienced Saphira’s epic battle with the Lethrblaka. The procession of images fascinated Nasuada. She had been born in the Empire but could remember nothing of it; this was the first time as an adult that she had looked upon anything besides the wild fringes of Galbatorix’s holdings.

Lastly came Eragon and his confrontation with Saphira. Saphira attempted to hide it, but the anguish she felt over leaving Eragon was still so raw and piercing, Nasuada had to dry her cheeks with the bandages on her forearms. However, the reasons Eragon gave for staying—killing the last Ra’zac and exploring the remainder of Helgrind—were reasons Nasuada deemed inadequate.

She frowned. Eragon may be rash, but he’s certainly not foolish enough to endanger everything we seek to accomplish merely so he could visit a few caves and drain the last bitter dregs of his revenge. There must be another explanation. She wondered whether she should press Saphira for the truth, but she knew Saphira would not withhold such information on a whim. Perhaps she wants to discuss it in private, she thought.

“Blast it!” exclaimed King Orrin. “Eragon could not have picked a worse time to set off on his own. What matters a single Ra’zac when Galbatorix’s entire army resides but a few miles from us? . . . We have to get him back.”

Angela laughed. She was knitting a sock using five bone needles, which clicked and clacked and scraped against each other with a steady, if peculiar, rhythm. “How? He’ll be traveling during the day, and Saphira daren’t fly around searching for him when the sun’s up and anyone might spot her and alert Galbatorix.”

“Yes, but he’s our Rider! We cannot sit by idly while he remains in the midst of our enemies.”

“I agree,” said Narheim. “However it is done, we must ensure his safe return. Grimstnzborith Hrothgar adopted Eragon into his family and clan—that is mine own clan, as you know—and we owe him the loyalty of our law and our blood.”

Arya knelt and, to Nasuada’s surprise, began to unlace and retie the upright sections of her boots. Holding one of the cords between her teeth, Arya said, “Saphira, where exactly was Eragon when you last touched his mind?”