Much later, when the candles guttered in their sockets and the villagers began to disperse in twos and threes, Roran grasped Eragon’s arm by the elbow and drew him through the back of the tent to stand by Saphira’s side, where the others could not hear. “What you said earlier about Helgrind, was that all of it?” asked Roran. His grip was like a pair of iron pincers clamped around Eragon’s flesh. His eyes were hard and questioning, and also unusually vulnerable.

Eragon held his gaze. “If you trust me, Roran, never ask me that question again. It’s not something you want to know.” Even as he spoke, Eragon felt a deep sense of unease over having to conceal Sloan’s existence from Roran and Katrina. He knew the deception was necessary, but it still made him uncomfortable to lie to his family. For a moment, Eragon considered telling Roran the truth, but then he remembered all the reasons he had decided not to and held his tongue.

Roran hesitated, his face troubled, then he set his jaw and released Eragon. “I trust you. That’s what family is for, after all, eh? Trust.”

“That and killing each other.”

Roran laughed and rubbed his nose with a thumb. “That too.” He rolled his thick, round shoulders and reached up to massage his right one, a habit he had fallen into since the Ra’zac had bitten him. “I have another question.”

“Oh?”

“It is a boon . . . a favor I seek of you.” A wry smile touched his lips, and he shrugged. “I never thought I would speak to you of this. You’re younger than I, you’ve barely reached your manhood, and you’re my cousin to boot.”

“Speak of what? Stop beating around the bush.”

“Of marriage,” said Roran, and lifted his chin. “Will you marry Katrina and me? It would please me if you would, and while I have refrained from mentioning it to her until I had your answer, I know Katrina would be honored and delighted if you would consent to join us as man and wife.”

Astonished, Eragon was at a loss for words. At last he managed to stammer, “Me?” Then he hastened to say, “I would be happy to do it, of course, but . . . me? Is that really what you want? I’m sure Nasuada would agree to marry the two of you. . . . You could have King Orrin, a real king! He would leap at the chance to preside over the ceremony if it would help him earn my favor.”

“I want you, Eragon,” said Roran, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You are a Rider, and you are the only other living person who shares my blood; Murtagh does not count. I cannot think of anyone else I would rather have tie the knot around my wrist and hers.”

“Then,” said Eragon, “I shall.” The air whooshed out of him as Roran embraced him and squeezed with all of his prodigious strength. He gasped slightly when Roran released him and then, once his breath had returned, said, “When? Nasuada has a mission planned for me. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m guessing it will keep me busy for some time. So . . . maybe early next month, if events allow?”

Roran’s shoulders bunched and knotted. He shook his head like a bull sweeping its horns through a clump of brambles. “What about the day after tomorrow?”

“So soon? Isn’t that rushing it a bit? There would hardly be any time to prepare. People will think it’s unseemly.”

Roran’s shoulders rose, and the veins on his hands bulged as he opened and closed his fists. “It can’t wait. If we’re not married and quick, the old women will have something far more interesting to gossip about than my impatience. Do you understand?”

It took Eragon a moment to grasp Roran’s meaning, but once he did, Eragon could not stop a broad smile from spreading across his face. Roran’s going to be a father! he thought. Still smiling, he said, “I think so. The day after tomorrow it is.” Eragon grunted as Roran hugged him again, pounding him on the back. With some difficulty, he freed himself.

Grinning, Roran said, “I’m in your debt. Thank you. Now I must go share the news with Katrina, and we must do what we can to ready a wedding feast. I will let you know the exact hour once we decide on it.”

“That sounds fine.”

Roran began walking toward the tent, then he spun around and threw his arms out in the air as if he would gather the entire world to his breast. “Eragon, I’m going to be married!”

With a laugh, Eragon waved his hand. “Go on, you fool. She’s waiting for you.”

Eragon climbed onto Saphira as the flaps of the tent closed over Roran. “Blödhgarm?” he called. Quiet as a shadow, the elf glided into the light, his yellow eyes glowing like coals. “Saphira and I are going to fly for a little while. We will meet you at my tent.”

“Shadeslayer,” said Blödhgarm, and tilted his head.

Then Saphira raised her massive wings, ran forward three steps, and launched herself over the rows of tents, battering them with wind as she flapped hard and fast. The movements of her body beneath him shook Eragon, and he gripped the spike in front of him for support. Saphira spiraled upward above the twinkling camp until it was an inconsequential patch of light dwarfed by the dark landscape that surrounded it. There she remained, floating between the heavens and the earth, and all was silent.

Eragon lay his head on her neck and stared up at the glittering band of dust that spanned the sky.

Rest if you want, little one, said Saphira. I shall not let you fall.

And he rested, and visions beset him of a circular stone city that stood in the center of an endless plain and of a small girl who wandered among the narrow, winding alleys within and who sang a haunting melody.