“I could save you a great deal of pain.”

“It wouldn’t do to exhaust you when our survival may depend on your talents. I do not deceive myself; you are more important than me.” A sly grin crossed her face. “Besides, if you remove your spell now, I won’t be able to help any of the Varden if they are threatened. You wouldn’t want Nasuada to die because of that, would you?”

“No,” admitted Eragon. He paused for a long time, considering the issue, then said, “Very well, I will wait. But I swear to you: If we win this fight, I shall right this wrong.”

The girl tilted her head to one side. “I will hold you to your word, Rider.”

Rising from her chair, Nasuada said, “Elva was the one who saved me from an assassin in Aberon.”

“Did she? In that case, I am in your debt . . . Elva . . . for protecting my liegelord.”

“Come now,” said Nasuada. “I must introduce the three of you to Orrin and his nobles. Have you met the king before, Orik?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I’ve never been this far west.”

As they left the pavilion—Nasuada in the lead, with Elva by her side—Eragon tried to position himself so he could talk with Arya, but when he neared her, she quickened her pace until she was level with Nasuada. Arya never even looked at him while she walked, a slight that caused him more anguish than any physical wound he had endured. Elva glanced back at him, and he knew that she was aware of his distress.

They soon arrived at another large pavilion, this one white and yellow—although it was difficult to determine the exact hue of the colors, given the garish orange that glazed everything on the Burning Plains. Once they were granted entrance, Eragon was astonished to find the tent crammed with an eccentric collection of beakers, alembics, retorts, and other instruments of natural philosophy.Who would bother toting all this onto a battlefield? he wondered, bewildered.

“Eragon,” said Nasuada, “I would like you to meet Orrin, son of Larkin and monarch of the realm of Surda.”

From the depths of the tangled piles of glass emerged a rather tall, handsome man with shoulder-length hair held back by the gold coronet resting upon his head. His mind, like Nasuada’s, was protected behind walls of iron; it was obvious he had received extensive training in that skill. Orrin seemed pleasant enough to Eragon from their discussion, if a bit green and untried when it came to commanding men in war and more than a little odd in the head. On the whole, Eragon trusted Nasuada’s leadership more.

After fending off scores of questions from Orrin about his stay among the elves, Eragon found himself smiling and nodding politely as one earl after another paraded past, each of whom insisted on shaking his hand, telling him what an honor it was to meet a Rider, and inviting him to their respective estates. Eragon dutifully memorized their many names and titles—as he knew Oromis would expect—and did his best to maintain a calm demeanor, despite his growing frustration.

We’re about to engage one of the largest armies in history, and here we are, stuck exchanging pleasantries.

Patience,counseled Saphira.There aren’t that many more. . . . Besides, look at it this way: if we win, they’ll owe us an entire year of free dinners, what with all their promises.

He stifled a chuckle.I think it would dismay them to know what it takes to feed you. Not to mention that you could empty their cellars of beer and wine in a single night.

I would never,she sniffed, then relented.Maybe in two nights.

When at last they won free of Orrin’s pavilion, Eragon asked Nasuada, “What shall I do now? How can I serve you?”

Nasuada eyed him with a curious expression. “How doyou think you can best serve me, Eragon? You know your own abilities far better than I do.” Even Arya watched him now, waiting to hear his response.

Eragon gazed up at the bloody sky while he pondered her question. “I shall take control of Du Vrangr Gata, as they once asked me to, and organize them underneath me so I can lead them into battle. Working together will give us the best chance of foiling Galbatorix’s magicians.”

“That seems an excellent idea.”

Is there a place,asked Saphira,where Eragon can leave his bags? I don’t want to carry them or this saddle any longer than I have to.

When Eragon repeated her question, Nasuada said, “Of course. You may leave them in my pavilion, and I will arrange to have a tent erected for you, Eragon, where you can keep them permanently. I suggest, though, that you don your armor before parting with your bags. You might need it at any moment. . . . That reminds me: we have your armor with us, Saphira. I shall have it unpacked and brought to you.”

“And what of me, Lady?” asked Orik.

“We have several knurlan with us from Dûrgrimst Ingeitum who have lent their expertise to the construction of our earthen defenses. You may take command of them if you wish.”

Orik seemed heartened by the prospect of seeing fellow dwarves, especially ones from his own clan. He clapped his fist to his chest and said, “I think I will at that. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it at once.” Without a backward glance, he trundled off through the camp, heading north toward the breastwork.

Returning to her pavilion with the four who remained, Nasuada said to Eragon, “Report to me once you have settled matters with Du Vrangr Gata.” Then she pushed aside the entrance flap to the pavilion and disappeared with Elva through the dark opening.

As Arya started to follow, Eragon reached toward her and, in the ancient language, said, “Wait.” The elf paused and looked at him, betraying nothing. He held her gaze without wavering, staring deep into her eyes, which reflected the strange light around them. “Arya, I won’t apologize for how I feel about you. However, I wanted you to know that Iam sorry for how I acted during the Blood-oath Celebration. I wasn’t myself that night; otherwise, I would have never been so forward with you.”