Eragon thought back to some of Oromis’s lessons and retorted, “Things that should remain secrets.”

“If you knew, you would not say that. Brom was a dabbler, nothing more. And the elves, bah! All they can do is hide in their forest and wait to be conquered.” Murtagh ran his eyes over Eragon. “You look like an elf now. Did Islanzadí do that to you?” When Eragon remained silent, Murtagh smiled and shrugged. “No matter. I’ll learn the truth soon enough.” He stopped, frowned, then looked to the east.

Following his gaze, Eragon saw the Twins standing at the front of the Empire, casting balls of energy into the midst of the Varden and the dwarves. The curtains of smoke made it difficult to tell, but Eragon was sure the hairless magicians were grinning and laughing as they slaughtered the men with whom they once pledged solemn friendship. What the Twins failed to notice—and what was clearly visible to Eragon and Murtagh from their vantage point—was that Roran was crawling toward them from the side.

Eragon’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized his cousin.You fool! Get away from them! You’ll be killed .

Just as he opened his mouth to cast a spell that would transport Roran out of danger—no matter the cost—Murtagh said, “Wait. I want to see what he’ll do.”

“Why?”

A bleak smile crossed Murtagh’s face. “The Twins enjoyed tormenting me when I was their captive.”

Eragon glanced at him, suspicious. “You won’t hurt him? You won’t warn the Twins?”

“Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur’tugal.” Upon my word as a Rider.

Together they watched as Roran hid behind a mound of bodies. Eragon stiffened as the Twins looked toward the pile. For a moment, it seemed they had spotted him, then they turned away and Roran jumped up. He swung his hammer and bashed one of the Twins in the head, cracking open his skull. The remaining Twin fell to the ground, convulsing, and emitted a wordless scream until he too met his end under Roran’s hammer. Then Roran planted his foot upon the corpses of his foes, lifted his hammer over his head, and bellowed his victory.

“What now?” demanded Eragon, turning away from the battlefield. “Are you here to kill me?”

“Of course not. Galbatorix wants you alive.”

“What for?”

Murtagh’s lips quirked. “You don’t know? Ha! There’s a fine jest. It’s not because of you; it’s because ofher. ” He jabbed a finger at Saphira. “The dragon inside Galbatorix’s last egg, the last dragon egg in the world, is male. Saphira is the only female dragon in existence. If she breeds, she will be the mother of her entire race. Do you see now? Galbatorix doesn’t want to eradicate the dragons. He wants to use Saphira to rebuild the Riders. He can’t kill you, either of you, if his vision is to become reality. . . . And what a vision it is, Eragon. You should hear him describe it, then you might not think so badly of him. Is it evil that he wants to unite Alagaësia under a single banner, eliminate the need for war, and restore the Riders?”

“He’s the one who destroyed the Riders in the first place!”

“And for good reason,” asserted Murtagh. “They were old, fat, and corrupt. The elves controlled them and used them to subjugate humans. They had to be removed so that we could start anew.”

A furious scowl contorted Eragon’s features. He paced back and forth across the plateau, his breathing heavy, then gestured at the battle and said, “How can you justify causing so much suffering on the basis of a madman’s ravings? Galbatorix has done nothing but burn and slaughter and amass power for himself. He lies. He murders. He manipulates. Youknow this! It’s why you refused to work for him in the first place.” Eragon paused, then adopted a gentler tone: “I can understand that you were compelled to act against your will and that you aren’t responsible for killing Hrothgar. You can try to escape, though. I’m sure that Arya and I could devise a way to neutralize the bonds Galbatorix has laid upon you. . . . Join me, Murtagh. You could do so much for the Varden. With us, you would be praised and admired, instead of cursed, feared, and hated.”

For a moment, as Murtagh gazed down at his notched sword, Eragon hoped he would accept. Then Murtagh said in a low voice, “You cannot help me, Eragon. No one but Galbatorix can release us from our oaths, and he will never do that. . . . He knows our true names, Eragon. . . . We are his slaves forever.”

Though he wanted to, Eragon could not deny the sympathy he felt for Murtagh’s plight. With the utmost gravity, he said, “Then let us kill the two of you.”

“Kill us! Why should we allow that?”

Eragon chose his words with care: “It would free you from Galbatorix’s control. And it would save the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Isn’t that a noble enough cause to sacrifice yourself for?”

Murtagh shook his head. “Maybe for you, but life is still too sweet for me to part with it so easily. No stranger’s life is more important than Thorn’s or my own.”

As much as he hated it—hated the entire situation, in fact—Eragon knew then what had to be done. Renewing his attack on Murtagh’s mind, he leaped forward, both feet leaving the ground as he lunged toward Murtagh, intending to stab him through the heart.

“Letta!” barked Murtagh.

Eragon dropped back to the ground as invisible bands clamped around his arms and legs, immobilizing him. To his right, Saphira discharged a jet of rippling fire and sprang at Murtagh like a cat pouncing on a mouse.