When the rabbits were ready, Eragon waved them in the air to cool them, then stared at the glistening, golden meat, the smell of which he found almost unbearably enticing.

As he opened his mouth to take the first bite, his thoughts turned unbidden to his meditations. He remembered his excursions into the minds of birds and squirrels and mice, how full of energy they felt and how vigorously they fought for the right to exist in the face of danger.And if this life is all they have . . .

Gripped by revulsion, Eragon thrust the meat away, as appalled by the fact that he had killed the rabbits as if he had murdered two people. His stomach churned and threatened to make him purge himself.

Saphira paused in her feast to eye him with concern.

Taking a long breath, Eragon pressed his fists against his knees in an attempt to master himself and understand why he was so strongly affected. His entire life he had eaten meat, fish, and fowl. Heenjoyed it. And yet it now made him physically ill to consider dining upon the rabbits. He looked at Saphira.I can’t do it, he said.

It is the way of the world that everything eats everything else. Why do you resist the order of things?

He pondered her question. He did not condemn those who did partake of flesh—he knew that it was the only means of survival for many a poor farmer. But he could no longer do so himself unless faced with starvation. Having been inside of a rabbit and having felt what a rabbit feels . . . eating one would be akin to eating himself.Because we can better ourselves, he answered Saphira.Should we give in to our impulses to hurt or kill any who anger us, to take whatever we want from those who are weaker, and, in general, to disregard the feelings of others? We are made imperfect and must guard against our flaws lest they destroy us.He gestured at the rabbits.As Oromis said, why should we cause unnecessary suffering?

Would you deny all of your desires, then?

I would deny those that are destructive.

You are adamant on this?

Aye.

In that case,said Saphira, advancing upon him,these will make a fine dessert. In a blink, she gulped down the rabbits and then licked clean the stone with the organs, abrading the slate with the barbs on her tongue.I, at least, cannot live on plants alone—that is food for prey, not a dragon. I refuse to be ashamed about how I must sustain myself. Everything has its place in the world. Even a rabbit knows that.

I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,he said, patting her on the leg.This is a personal decision. I won’t force my choice upon anyone.

Very wise,she said with a touch of sarcasm.

BROKENEGG ANDSCATTEREDNEST

“Concentrate, Eragon,” said Oromis, though not unkindly.

Eragon blinked and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to focus on the glyphs that decorated the curling parchment paper before him. “Sorry, Master.” Weariness dragged upon him like lead weights tied to his limbs. He squinted at the curved and spiked glyphs, raised his goose-feather quill, and began to copy them again.

Through the window behind Oromis, the green shelf on top of the Crags of Tel’naeír was streaked with shadows from the descending sun. Beyond, feathery clouds banded the sky.

Eragon’s hand jerked as a line of pain shot up his leg, and he broke the nib of the quill and sprayed ink across the paper, ruining it. Across from him, Oromis also started, clutching his right arm.

Saphira!cried Eragon. He reached for her with his mind and, to his bewilderment, was deflected by impenetrable barriers that she had erected around herself. He could barely feel her. It was as if he were trying to grasp an orb of polished granite coated with oil. She kept slipping away from him.

He looked at Oromis. “Something’s happened to them, hasn’t it?”

“I know not. Glaedr returns, but he refuses to talk to me.” Taking his blade, Naegling, from the wall, Oromis strode outside and stood upon the edge of the crags, head uplifted as he waited for the gold dragon to appear.

Eragon joined him, thinking of everything—probable and improbable—that might have befallen Saphira. The two dragons had left at noon, flying north to a place called the Stone of Broken Eggs, where the wild dragons had nested in ages past. It was an easy trip.It couldn’t be Urgals; the elves don’t allow them into Du Weldenvarden, he told himself.

At last Glaedr came into view high above as a winking speck among the darkening clouds. As he descended to land, Eragon saw a wound on the back of the dragon’s right foreleg, a tear in his lapped scales as wide as Eragon’s hand. Scarlet blood laced the grooves between the surrounding scales.

The moment Glaedr touched the ground, Oromis rushed toward him, only to stop when the dragon growled at him. Hopping on his injured leg, Glaedr crawled to the edge of the forest, where he curled up beneath the outstretched boughs, his back to Eragon, and set about licking clean his wound.

Oromis went and knelt in the clover by Glaedr, keeping his distance with calm patience. It was obvious that he would wait as long as need be. Eragon fidgeted as the minutes elapsed. Finally, by some unspoken signal, Glaedr allowed Oromis to draw near and inspect his leg. Magic glowed from Oromis’s gedwëy ignasia as he placed his hand over the rent in Glaedr’s scales.

“How is he?” asked Eragon when Oromis withdrew.

“It looks a fearsome wound, but it is no more than a scratch for one so large as Glaedr.”

“What about Saphira, though? I still can’t contact her.”

“You must go to her,” said Oromis. “She is hurt, in more ways than one. Glaedr said little of what transpired, but I have guessed much, and you would do well to hurry.”