“A bit, but nothing extraordinary. They seem to have resigned themselves to my leadership.” Her mail clinking together, Nasuada seated herself in a large, high-backed chair and turned to Orik, who had yet to speak. She welcomed him and asked if he had aught to add to Eragon’s tale. Orik shrugged and provided a few anecdotes from their stay in Ellesméra, though Eragon suspected that the dwarf kept his true observations a secret for his king.

When he finished, Nasuada said, “I am heartened to know that if we can weather this onslaught, we shall have the elves by our side. Did any of you happen to see Hrothgar’s warriors during your flight from Aberon? We are counting on their reinforcements.”

No,answered Saphira through Eragon.But then, it was dark and I was often above or between clouds. I could have easily missed a camp under those conditions. In any case, I doubt we would have crossed paths, for I flew straight from Aberon, and it seems likely the dwarves would choose a different route—perhaps following established roads—rather than march through the wilderness.

“What,” asked Eragon, “is the situation here?”

Nasuada sighed and then told of how she and Orrin had learned about Galbatorix’s army and the desperate measures they had resorted to since in order to reach the Burning Plains before the king’s soldiers. She finished by saying, “The Empire arrived three days ago. Since then, we’ve exchanged two messages. First they asked for our surrender, which we refused, and now we wait for their reply.”

“How many of them are there?” growled Orik. “It looked a mighty number from Saphira’s back.”

“Aye. We estimate Galbatorix mustered as many as a hundred thousand soldiers.”

Eragon could not contain himself: “A hundred thousand! Where did they come from? It seems impossible that he could find more than a handful of people willing to serve him.”

“They were conscripted. We can only hope that the men who were torn from their homes won’t be eager to fight. If we can frighten them badly enough, they may break ranks and flee. Our numbers are greater than in Farthen Dûr, for King Orrin has joined forces with us and we have received a veritable flood of volunteers since we began to spread the word about you, Eragon, although we are still far weaker than the Empire.”

Then Saphira asked, and Eragon was forced to repeat the dreadful question:What do you think our chances of victory are?

“That,” said Nasuada, putting emphasis on the word, “depends a great deal upon you and Eragon, and the number of magicians seeded throughout their troops. If you can find and destroy those magicians, then our enemies shall be left unprotected and you can slay them at will. Outright victory, I think, is unlikely at this point, but we might be able to hold them at bay until their supplies run low or until Islanzadí can come to our assistance. That is . . . if Galbatorix doesn’t fly into battle himself. In that case, I fear retreat will be our only option.”

Just then, Eragon felt a strange mind approaching, one that knew he was watching and yet did not shrink from the contact. One that felt cold and hard, calculating. Alert for danger, Eragon turned his gaze toward the rear of the pavilion, where he saw the same black-haired girl who had appeared when he scryed Nasuada from Ellesméra. The girl stared at him with violet eyes, then said, “Welcome, Shadeslayer. Welcome, Saphira.”

Eragon shivered at the sound of her voice, the voice of an adult. He wet his dry mouth and asked, “Who are you?”

Without answering, the girl brushed back her glossy bangs and exposed a silvery white mark on her forehead, exactly like Eragon’s gedwëy ignasia. He knew then whom he faced.

No one moved as Eragon went to the girl, accompanied by Saphira, who extended her neck farther into the pavilion. Dropping to one knee, Eragon took the girl’s right hand in his own; her skin burned as if with fever. She did not resist him, but merely left her hand limp in his grip. In the ancient language—and also with his mind, so that she would understand—Eragon said, “I am sorry. Can you forgive me for what I did to you?”

The girl’s eyes softened, and she leaned forward and kissed Eragon upon the brow. “I forgive you,” she whispered, for the first time sounding her age. “How could I not? You and Saphira created who I am, and I know you meant no harm. I forgive you, but I shall let this knowledge torture your conscience: You have condemned me to be aware of all the suffering around me. Even now your spell drives me to rush to the aid of a man not three tents away who just cut his hand, to help the young flag carrier who broke his left index finger in the spokes of a wagon wheel, and to help countless others who have been or are about to be hurt. It costs me dearly to resist those urges, and even more if I consciously cause someone discomfort, as I do by saying this. . . . I cannot even sleep at night for the strength of my compulsion.That is your legacy, O Rider.” By the end, her voice had regained its bitter, mocking edge.

Saphira interposed herself between them and, with her snout, touched the girl in the center of her mark.Peace, Changeling. You have much anger in your heart.

“You don’t have to live like this forever,” said Eragon. “The elves taught me how to undo a spell, and I believe I can free you of this curse. It won’t be easy, but it can be done.”

For a moment, the girl seemed to lose her formidable self-control. A small gasp escaped her lips, her hand trembled against Eragon’s, and her eyes glistened with a film of tears. Then just as quickly, she hid her true emotions behind a mask of cynical amusement. “Well, we shall see. Either way, you shouldn’t try until after this battle.”