Then the dragon leaped up and out from the city, and he unfurled his massive wings, and their opening was like a hundred black sails filling with wind. When he flapped, the air shook as if from a clap of thunder, and throughout the countryside, dogs bayed and roosters crowed.

Without thinking, Eragon crouched, feeling like a mouse hiding from an eagle.

Elva tugged on the hem of his tunic. “We should go,” she insisted.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Great swaths of stars vanished as Shruikan wheeled across the sky, climbing higher and higher. Eragon tried to guess the dragon’s size from the outline of his shape, but the night was too dark and the distance too hard to determine. Whatever Shruikan’s exact proportions, he was frighteningly large. At only a century of age, he ought to have been smaller than he was, but Galbatorix seemed to have accelerated his growth, even as he had Thorn’s.

As he watched the shadow drifting above, Eragon hoped with all his might that Galbatorix was not with the dragon, or if he was, that he would not bother to examine the minds of those below. If he did, he would discover—

“Eldunarí,” gasped Elva. “That’s what you’re hiding!” Behind her, the girl’s caretaker frowned with puzzlement and started to ask a question.

“Quiet!” growled Eragon. Elva opened her mouth, and he clamped his hand over it, silencing her. “Not here, not now,” he warned. She nodded, and he removed his hand.

At that very moment, a bar of fire as wide as the Anora River arced across the sky. Shruikan whipped his head back and forth, spraying the torrent of blinding flames above the camp and the surrounding fields, and the night filled with a sound like a crashing waterfall. Heat stung Eragon’s upturned face. Then the flames evaporated, like mist in the sun, leaving behind a throbbing afterimage and a smoky, sulfurous smell.

The huge dragon turned and flapped once more—shaking the air—before his formless black shape glided back down toward the city and settled among the buildings. Footsteps followed, then the clanking of the chains, and finally the echoing crack of a gate slamming shut.

Eragon released the breath he had been holding and swallowed, though his throat was dry. His heart was pounding so hard, it was painful. We have to fight … that? he thought, all his old fears rushing back.

“Why didn’t he attack?” asked Elva in a small, fearful voice.

“He wanted to frighten us.” Eragon frowned. “Or distract us.” He searched through the minds of the Varden until he found Jörmundur, then gave the warrior instructions to check that all the sentries were still at their posts and to redouble the watch for the remainder of the night. To Elva, he said, “Were you able to feel anything from Shruikan?”

The girl shuddered. “Pain. Great pain. And anger too. If he could, he would kill every creature he met and burn every plant, until there were none left. He’s utterly mad.”

“Is there no way to reach him?”

“None. The kindest thing to do would be to release him from his misery.”

The knowledge made Eragon sad. He had always hoped that they might be able to save Shruikan from Galbatorix. Subdued, he said, “We had best be off. Are you ready?”

Elva explained to her caretaker that she was leaving, which displeased the old woman, but Elva soothed her worries with a few quick words. The girl’s power to see into others’ hearts never ceased to amaze Eragon, and trouble him as well.

Once Greta had granted her consent, Eragon hid both Elva and himself with magic, and then they set off together toward the hill where Saphira was waiting.

OVER THE WALL AND INTO THE MAW

ust you do that?” asked Elva.

Eragon paused in the midst of checking the leg straps on Saphira’s saddle and looked over to where the girl sat cross-legged on the grass, toying with the links of her mail shirt.

“What?” he asked.

She tapped her lip with a small, pointed fingernail. “You keep chewing on the inside of your mouth. It’s distracting.” After a moment’s consideration, she said, “And disgusting.”

With some surprise, he realized that he had bitten the inner surface of his right cheek until it was covered with several bloody sores. “Sorry,” he said, and healed himself with a quick spell.

He had spent the deepest part of the night meditating—thinking not of what was to come nor of what had been, but only of what was: the touch of the cool air against his skin, the feel of the ground beneath him, the steady flow of his breath, and the slow beat of his heart as it marked off the remaining moments of his life.

Now, however, the morning star, Aiedail, had risen in the east—heralding the arrival of dawn’s first light—and the time had come to ready themselves for battle. He had inspected every inch of his equipment, adjusted the harness of the saddle until it was perfectly comfortable for Saphira, emptied the saddlebags of everything but the chest that contained Glaedr’s Eldunarí and a blanket for padding, and buckled and rebuckled his sword belt at least five times.

He finished examining the straps on the saddle, then jumped off Saphira. “Stand up,” he said. Elva gave him a look of annoyance but did as he asked, brushing grass from the side of her tunic. Moving quickly, he ran his hands over her thin shoulders and tugged on the edge of her mail hauberk to ensure that it was sitting properly. “Who made this for you?”

“A pair of charming dwarf brothers called Ûmar and Ulmar.” Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at him. “They didn’t think I needed it, but I was very persuasive.”