“And by Hrothgar’s otho, we of the Ingeitum accept your hospitality,” responded Orik.

“As do I, in Islanzadí’s stead,” added Arya.

Appearing satisfied, Thorv motioned to his fellow riders, who spurred their Feldûnost into formation around the four of them. With a flourish, the dwarves rode off, guiding them to Tarnag and through the city gates.

The outer wall was forty feet thick and formed a shadowed tunnel to the first of the many farms that belted Tarnag. Five more tiers—each of which was defended by a fortified gate—carried them past the fields and into the city proper.

In contrast to Tarnag’s thickly built ramparts, the buildings within, though of stone, were shaped with such cunning as to give the impression of grace and lightness. Strong, bold carvings, usually of animals, adorned the houses and shops. But even more striking was the stone itself: vibrant hues, from bright scarlet to the subtlest of greens, glazed the rock in translucent layers.

And hung throughout the city were the dwarves’ flameless lanterns, their multicolored sparks harbingers of the Beors’ long dusk and night.

Unlike Tronjheim, Tarnag had been constructed in proportion to the dwarves, with no concession for human, elf, or dragon visitors. At the most, doorways were five feet high, and they were often only four and a half. Eragon was of middling height, but now he felt like a giant transported onto a puppet stage.

The streets were wide and crammed. Dwarves of various clans hurried about their business or stood haggling in and around shops. Many were garbed in strange, exotic costumes, such as a block of fierce black-haired dwarves who wore silver helmets forged in the likeness of wolf heads.

Eragon stared at the dwarf women the most, as he had only caught brief glimpses of them while in Tronjheim. They were broader than the men, and their faces were heavyset, yet their eyes sparkled and their hair was lustrous and their hands were gentle on their diminutive children. They eschewed frippery, except for small, intricate brooches of iron and stone.

At the Feldûnost’s piercing footsteps, the dwarves turned to look at the new arrivals. They did not cheer as Eragon had expected, but rather bowed and murmured, “Shadeslayer.” As they saw the hammer and stars upon Eragon’s helm, admiration was replaced by shock and, in many cases, outrage. A number of the angrier dwarves contracted around the Feldûnost, glaring between the animals at Eragon and shouting imprecations.

The back of Eragon’s neck prickled.It seems that adopting me wasn’t the most popular decision Hrothgar could make.

Aye,agreed Saphira.He may have strengthened his hold on you, but at the cost of alienating many of the dwarves. . . . We’d better get out of sight before blood is shed.

Thorv and the other guards rode forward as if the crowd was nonexistent, clearing the way through seven additional tiers until only a single gate separated them from the mass of Celbedeil. Then Thorv turned left, toward a great hall pressed against the side of the mountain and protected in fore by a barbican with two machicolated towers.

As they neared the hall, a group of armed dwarves streamed out from between the houses and formed a thick line, blocking the street. Long purple veils covered their faces and draped over their shoulders, like mail coifs.

The guards immediately reined in their Feldûnost, faces hard. “What is it?” Eragon asked Orik, but the dwarf only shook his head and strode forward, a hand on his ax.

“Etzil nithgech!” cried a veiled dwarf, raising a fist. “Formv Hrethcarach . . . formv Jurgencarmeitder nos eta goroth bahst Tarnag, dûr encesti rak kythn! Jok is warrev az barzûlegûr dûr dûrgrimst, Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, môgh tor rak Jurgenvren? Né ûdim etal os rast knurlag. Knurlag ana . . .” For a long minute, he continued to rant with growing spleen.

“Vrron!” barked Thorv, cutting him off, then the two dwarves began arguing. Despite the harsh exchange, Eragon saw that Thorv seemed to respect the other dwarf.

Eragon shifted to the side—trying to get a better view past Thorv’s Feldûnost—and the veiled dwarf abruptly fell silent, jabbing at Eragon’s helm with an expression of horror.

“Knurlag qana qirânû Dûrgrimst Ingeitum!” he screamed. “Qarzûl ana Hrothgar oen volfild—”

“Jok is frekk dûrgrimstvren?” interrupted Orik quietly, drawing his ax. Worried, Eragon glanced at Arya, but she was too intent on the confrontation to notice him. He surreptitiously slid his hand down and around Zar’roc’s wire-wrapped hilt.

The strange dwarf stared hard at Orik, then removed an iron ring from his pocket, plucked three hairs from his beard, twined them around the ring, and threw it onto the street with an impervious clink, spitting after it. Without a word, the purple-shrouded dwarves filed away.

Thorv, Orik, and the other warriors flinched as the ring bounced across the granite pavement. Even Arya seemed taken aback. Two of the younger dwarves blanched and reached for their blades, then dropped their hands as Thorv barked, “Eta!”

Their reactions unsettled Eragon far more than the raucous exchange had. As Orik strode forward alone and deposited the ring in a pouch, Eragon asked, “What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Thorv, “that you have enemies.”

They hurried through the barbican to a wide courtyard arrayed with three banquet tables, decorated with lanterns and banners. Before the tables stood a group of dwarves, foremost among them a gray-bearded dwarf swathed in wolfskin. He spread his arms, saying, “Welcome to Tarnag, home of Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn. We have heard much praise of you, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Ûndin, son of Derûnd and clan chief.”