“And in the meantime?”

Ûndin shrugged his fur-bound shoulders. “I had intended to show you the wonders of Tarnag, but it would be foolish now for you to wander mine city. However, Grimstborith Gannel has invited you to Celbedeil for the day. Accept if you wish. You’ll be safe with him.” The clan chief seemed to have forgotten his earlier assertion that Az Sweldn rak Anhûin would not harm a guest.

“Thank you, I might at that.” As Eragon left the hall, he pulled Orik aside and asked, “How serious is this feud, really? I need to know the truth.”

Orik answered with obvious reluctance: “In the past, it was not uncommon for blood feuds to endure for generations. Entire families were driven extinct because of them. It was rash of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin to invoke the old ways; such a thing has not been done since the last of the clan wars. . . . Until they rescind their oath, you must guard against their treachery, whether it be for a year or a century. I’m sorry that your friendship with Hrothgar has brought this upon you, Eragon. But you are not alone. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum stands with you in this.”

Once outside, Eragon hurried to Saphira, who had spent the night coiled in the courtyard.Do you mind if I visit Celbedeil?

Go if you must. But take Zar’roc.He followed her advice, also tucking Nasuada’s scroll into his tunic.

When Eragon approached the gates to the hall’s enclosure, five dwarves pushed the rough-hewn timbers aside, then closed in around him, hands on their axes and swords as they inspected the street. The guards remained as Eragon retraced yesterday’s path to the barred entrance of Tarnag’s foremost tier.

Eragon shivered. The city seemed unnaturally empty. Doors were closed, windows were shuttered, and the few pedestrians in evidence averted their faces and turned down alleys to avoid walking past him.They’re scared to be seen near me, he realized.Perhaps because they know Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will retaliate against anyone who helps me. Eager to escape the open street, Eragon raised his hand to knock, but before he could, one door grated outward, and a black-robed dwarf beckoned from within. Tightening his sword belt, Eragon entered, leaving his guards outside.

His first impression was of color. A burning-green sward splayed around the pillared mass of Celbedeil, like a mantle dropped over the symmetrical hill that upheld the temple. Ivy strangled the building’s ancient walls in foot after foot of hairy ropes, dew still glittering on the pointed leaves. And curving above all but the mountains was the great white cupola ribbed with chiseled gold.

His next impression was of smell. Flowers and incense mixed their perfumes into an aroma so ethereal, Eragon felt as if he could live on the scent alone.

Last was sound, for despite clumps of priests strolling along mosaic pathways and spacious grounds, the only noise Eragon could discern was the soft thump of a rook flying overhead.

The dwarf beckoned again and strode down the main avenue toward Celbedeil. As they passed under its eaves, Eragon could only marvel at the wealth and craftsmanship displayed around him. The walls were spotted with gems of every color and cut—though all flawless—and red gold had been hammered into the veins lacing the stone ceilings, walls, and floor. Pearls and silver provided accents. Occasionally, they passed a screen partition carved entirely of jade.

The temple was devoid of cloth decorations. In their absence, the dwarves had carved a profusion of statues, many depicting monsters and deities locked in epic battles.

After climbing several floors, they passed through a copper door waxy with verdigris and embossed with intricate, patterned knots into a bare room floored with wood. Armor hung thickly on the walls, along with racks of staff-swords identical to the one Angela had fought with in Farthen Dûr.

Gannel was there, sparring with three younger dwarves. The clan chief’s robe was rucked up over his thighs so he could move freely, his face a fierce scowl as the wood shaft spun in his hands, unsharpened blades darting like riled hornets.

Two dwarves lunged at Gannel, only to be stymied in a clatter of wood and metal as he spun past them, rapping their knees and heads and sending them to the floor. Eragon grinned as he watched Gannel disarm his last opponent in a brilliant flurry of blows.

At last the clan chief noticed Eragon and dismissed the other dwarves. As Gannel set his weapon on a rack, Eragon said, “Are all Quan so proficient with the blade? It seems an odd skill for priests.”

Gannel faced him. “We must be able to defend ourselves, no? Many enemies stalk this land.”

Eragon nodded. “Those are unique swords. I’ve never seen their like, except for one an herbalist used in the battle of Farthen Dûr.”

The dwarf sucked in his breath, then let it hiss out between his teeth. “Angela.” His expression soured. “She won her staff from a priest in a game of riddles. It was a nasty trick, as we are the only ones allowed to use hûthvírn. She and Arya . . .” He shrugged and went to a small table, where he filled two mugs with ale. Handing one to Eragon, he said, “I invited you here today at Hrothgar’s request. He told me that if you accepted his offer to become Ingeitum, I was to acquaint you with dwarf traditions.”

Eragon sipped the ale and kept silent, eyeing how Gannel’s thick brow caught the light, shadows dripping down his cheeks from the bony ridge.

The clan chief continued: “Never before has an outsider been taught our secret beliefs, nor may you speak of them to human or elf. Yet without this knowledge, you cannot uphold what it means to be knurla. You are Ingeitum now: our blood, our flesh, our honor. You understand?”